Full Circle
by nanaa127
Summary: It's too easy for these kids to fall through the cracks. Aramis is determined to find them before they disappear completely, even if his search leads him down a road of no return. Modern AU.
1. Chapter 1

_A little boy stood on his tiptoes, his small, chubby hands curled around the edge of a cheap, fold-up table. He wobbled a bit as the uneven legs shifted under his weight. A young woman, perched on a plastic stool by the table, gave the boy a fond, exasperated look as depleted cases of old makeup shifted. A tube of lipstick rolled off the tilted surface and onto the worn carpeting._

 _"Mijo, you need to behave yourself. I can't get ready if you keep bothering me."_

 _The little boy plopped himself back onto the floor and picked up the fallen lipstick, uncapping it and smearing it all over his mouth and chin. He was about four years old, with unruly brown curls and large, soulful eyes set beautifully into a sweet, round face. The young woman looked down at the boy and laughed when she saw the bright red streaks smeared onto the features that would eventually look so much like her own._

 _"Ah, mi amor, I think you will need more practice with that." She gently plucked the lipstick from her son's fingers and then picked him up and settled him into her lap. She used a tissue to wipe the waxy color from his skin. "Do you want to help your mamá?"_

 _The boy nodded. He grabbed at the item closest to him and handed it to the young woman. "Gracias," she said solemnly with a twinkle in her eyes. "This is exactly what I needed." The child watched as she carefully applied eyeliner with the stubby black pencil he had picked out, hunching over so that she could see herself in the tiny round mirror that was propped up against the wall. He loved to watch his mamá apply makeup to her pretty face. He was held enthralled as she slowly and carefully brushed a thin layer of shadow to her eyelids, delicately coated her long lashes with mascara and as a final touch, painted glossy pigment onto her full lips. When she was done, she looked like herself, but not. The transformation fascinated him._

 _"Are you going to work, mamá?" he asked as she sprayed a bit of precious fragrance onto her throat. He turned his face and immediately buried his nose into her shoulder, inhaling deeply. He loved the way she smelled, like amber and sandalwood and a hint of spice. It was a warm, rich scent and wholly his mamá. The perfume was one of the very few things that the young woman had carried with her when she had left home many years ago. It was one luxury she still had._

 _"I do, mijito. You know I have to."_

 _The boy shook his head with an unhappy look. He disliked the nights his mamá worked. She always seemed so sad the next day, no matter how hard she tried to hide it from him. Sometimes she decided to hide herself instead, staying in bed for days and refusing to do anything but sleep. In times like those, he would climb into bed next to her and cuddle by her side, not knowing what else to do._

 _The young woman set him on the floor and knelt in front of him, careful not to tear her tight, flimsy miniskirt. "You are going to need some new clothes soon," she said as she gently rubbed her thumb across his soft cheek. The child closed his eyes and reveled in her touch. "Just look at you, you're getting so big!" In reality, the little boy was small for his age. He had inherited his mother's lean tendencies along with her looks, and he sometimes went to bed hungry despite his mamá's best efforts. Even so, it was true that he was outgrowing the threadbare garments that she was able to provide for him._

 _Seeing the forlorn look on her son's face, the young woman picked him up and cradled him against her hip. She peppered his face with soft little kisses and he giggled, his gloominess dispelled. They walked over to the next room and the boy knocked on the door._

 _"Be good for Louise and Pauline. I don't want to hear that you've been getting into trouble again," she said sternly as they waited._

 _"Okay," the boy agreed, tightly wrapping his arms around her neck and giving her a mischievous little grin. He was planning to forget the instructions as soon as he left his mamá's sight._

 _"And remember to say your prayers before you go to bed."_

 _"Okay."_

 _The door opened and a woman with short blonde hair and pale skin and greeted them with a smile._

 _"Hola, Louise," the young woman said. "I have Aramis for you."_

 _"Ah yes, my little wildcat," Louise said, opening her arms. Aramis leaned forward and eagerly met her embrace. "Pauline has some games she wants to play," Louise said, tapping his nose. "I bet she'd love to show you how."_

 _Aramis squirmed out of Louise's arms as she set him down on the floor. He promptly ran away to find his playmate, already focused on the fun he was sure to have. Aramis' mother watched him go with a proud, desperate look on her face. She knew without a doubt that her beloved son was the best thing that had ever happened to her. She was also certain that she was probably the worst thing that could have happened to him._

 _"Gracias, Louise. I'll be back tomorrow morning."_

 _The blonde woman gave her a brief hug. "Take care of yourself, Catalina. We'll be waiting for you."_

 _Catalina nodded her thanks once more and walked away as the door shut behind her, separating her from her little son. She hated this life, hated what she had to do with her body, but it had given her Aramis. She could only be grateful for that, and she would do whatever she had to if it meant that she could support her beautiful boy._

* * *

"Where's Aramis?"

Athos nodded his thanks as Porthos kicked out an empty chair for him and D'Artagnan pushed over a full glass of red wine. The two men were sitting at their usual spot, a small round table tucked away in the back corner of a dimly lit dive bar called The Garrison. Aramis had been tickled by the name of the place when they'd first come across the tiny establishment a few years ago, before D'Artagnan had joined their team. They had come in for a drink only at his insistence, and they'd been coming regularly ever since.

The man in question was conspicuously absent. He'd disappeared after work with a cheerful 'see you later' and that had been that. His chair remained empty and all three men glanced at the open space simultaneously. D'Artagnan shrugged, toying with his mug of beer.

"A new woman, maybe?" he suggested. It wouldn't have been the first time Aramis had failed to show because he'd found other company.

Porthos shook his head. "Nah. He hasn't been himself since Adele left him for another man." The former cop let a wicked smile slide across his face. "Must have been a shock to his ego."

"I'm sure he'll recover," Athos said dryly.

"Yeah, in the arms of another woman, most like," Porthos chuckled amiably. While Aramis wasn't quite as promiscuous as Porthos and Athos liked to tease, the half-Spaniard's romantic relationships with women could best be described as 'fast' and 'commitment-free'. That wasn't to say that they were also free of genuine fondness and affection, however, and Aramis had a knack for picking the right women and for knowing when a relationship had run its course. Porthos had yet to find a scorned lover on Aramis' doorstep, which was a relief considering that it was only a few down from his own. The husbands and boyfriends of some of those women were another matter, though. Porthos had to choke back a laugh as he remembered some of the odd situations that his brother managed to find for himself while trying to flee the wrath of those men. And woman, Porthos reminded himself. The look on Aramis' face had been priceless.

"He might be helping Sylvie," Athos mused, drawing Porthos from his thoughts. "He mentioned a few days ago that there have been a lot of kids coming through the shelter. It seems as if the police are feeling less lenient these days."

"Yeah, sounds about right," Porthos agreed.

"Is that what he's been doing?" D'Artagnan asked. "I was wondering where he's been disappearing to after work."

"Aramis and idleness do not mix well," Athos pointed out, swirling the wine in his glass and lifting it in salute to his brothers before bringing it to his nose and inhaling deeply. "Working with the kids and doing odd jobs at these homes helps to keep him occupied."

"When did he start?" D'Artagnan asked, his head tilting with curiosity. He'd known these men for only a little over a year, and while his friendship with them had quickly settled into a comfortable familiarity, he still jumped at the chance pick up the random fragments of history that lay behind "les inséparables" _,_ as they were jokingly referred to at Tréville's firm.

"After he was discharged from the military. He was in rehabilitation and needed something to occupy his time before he was fully cleared to start working again," Porthos replied, his eyes darkening with memory. He banished them as quickly as he could; he saw no need to dwell on those times.

"It brought him some peace, after what happened. He claimed he needed to feel useful, to have some purpose," Athos added.

The dark-skinned man sitting by his side snorted at the thought and glanced at Athos. "We wanted him to just sit back and relax. Let himself rest for a bit before jumping back in."

"It was like talking to a brick wall," Athos said, a droll look on his face. "Unsurprisingly."

Porthos huffed out a laugh. "Remember how many potential new 'hobbies' he went through back then?"

"I'm trying not to," Athos replied. "I may still have paint under my fingernails after helping him scrape it off his floor."

D'Artagnan grinned. "Well, I guess I should be glad he's got something to do. He's looked a bit bored at work the past few weeks."

Porthos grinned. "Of course he has. Aramis hates being stuck behind a desk while we have all the fun. He has to burn that extra energy somewhere."

The young Gascon colored slightly at the memory of the events that had led to Aramis' exclusion from their field work. "He's done with his PT this weekend, right?"

Athos nodded, taking a long, appreciative sip from his glass. Serge's small bar offered only three different wines on the menu, but he'd taken to collecting small reserves of interesting vintages just for his three - now four - regulars. The old veteran had surprisingly excellent taste. "Yes, and not a moment too soon. I think Tréville is in danger of losing his mind if he has to put up with Aramis' attempts at being helpful any longer."

The two other men laughed, remembering the look of meek shame on the former soldier's face and the impressive shade of red on Tréville's when they had returned from their assignment earlier in the day. Aramis refused to tell them what had happened, and their boss was too professional to say anything, much to their disappointment.

"Speaking of new women and Aramis' bum knee, how is Constance?" Porthos asked, reaching over and slapping D'Artagnan on the back.

"She's great," D'Artagnan replied, a pleased smile lighting his face. "Constance has tomorrow off so we're planning on doing something. Maybe a movie."

Athos smiled in return. It was satisfying to see the young Gascon relishing a moment of uninhibited happiness. That sort of joy had seemed to elude him since his father's murder a little over a year ago. Athos had not even realized that a grey cloud had been hovering over D'Artagnan until the younger man had met the pretty medical intern. While he certainly hadn't been unhappy, it wasn't until D'Artagnan's affection for Constance had dissipated said cloud that Athos recognized how muted the young man had been. As D'Artagnan detailed their potential plans for the next day, Serge came limping up to their table, an open bottle of red in hand. He gestured to Athos and Porthos' glasses. "A top off for you fellows?"

"Please." Athos pushed his empty goblet towards the old man. "This one was particularly good."

Serge gave him a wink and showed him the label. "You can thank Aramis for it. He picked it out."

Twin looks of confusion decorated Athos and Porthos' faces. "I'm sorry?"

"Since you boys started coming in here, he asked me to stock up on some nicer bottles. He brings some of them in for me," Serge explained with a shrug. "Said Athos here had - oh, how did he put it? - 'a taste for wines that would bankrupt small nations', if I remember right. Not that these are quite that fancy, mind you."

"Yes, well...thank you. I appreciate it."

D'Artagnan snickered at Athos' mildly mortified expression.

"Ah, he didn't mean anything by it. Just wanted to make sure you had something extra good to look forward to when you came in." The veteran leaned against the table, resting his bad hip. "Where is my boy, anyway? Will he be joining you?"

"Probably not, Serge. I think he might be helping Sylvie tonight," Porthos informed him.

The old man nodded in approval. "Tell him to stop by soon. I've some new whiskey for him to try."

The three men nodded their thanks as the proprietor shuffled away again. Serge's obvious fondness for their friend was one of the reasons they kept coming back to The Garrison during their free time. Although the two men had seen active duty in different eras, the bond that came from the shared experience of serving in the same regiment had ensured that the two of them became fast friends.

They stayed for another hour or so, comfortable and content with the present company and wishing their fourth had been there to join them. Eventually, the three men finished up their drinks and headed back to their building. Porthos bid Athos and D'Artagnan a goodnight, and before he went to his own flat he stopped to knock on Aramis' door.

"'Mis? You in there?"

Porthos stood in front of the door for a beat longer, listening carefully for any sign that Aramis would be coming to answer him. When there was none, he turned away and checked his watch. It was later than Aramis usually stayed at the shelter.

 _Maybe there is a new woman after all,_ Porthos thought to himself as he made for his own home. _Guess we'll find out soon enough._

* * *

 _The whistling sound of falling mortar rounds followed Mariam from sleep into her waking hours. The shriek lived in her ear, never leaving her alone. It was a sound that made her cringe with fear, with grief and with anger. Such terrible anger. Even with thousands of kilometers traveled and almost six months of time between now and then, the anger would still catch her off-guard, sneaking up on her when she least expected it. Sometimes it would be the smell of a fried pastry, at others, it would be the sound of a little girl giggling. She looked down at the small body that was curled up next to hers for warmth. Rami, her younger brother, was the only thing that kept her from flying to pieces. He was the only family Mariam had left._

 _Mariam had been away when it had happened. She was supposed to get Rami and then come straight home from school to help mama with some chores, but she had dallied with her friends instead. They'd gone to grab a soda at a bodega near their school and had spent their time giggling over some gossip. When she'd finally gone to pick up little Rami, she found him sitting on the steps to his school, pouting over his loneliness. A bribe of two candy bars had convinced Rami that he shouldn't tell mama she'd been late. After Mariam received his promise, she grabbed his hand, playfully swinging it back and forth. Rami was a sweet, obedient boy and her favorite sibling, no matter that baba said she should not have favorites._

 _Despite spending countless sleepless nights deep in contemplation, she still didn't understand what she had done, what her family had done, to deserve such wrath. The unfairness of it was shocking. Her parents, her brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, cousins - they were all peaceful, loving people. They had all been wiped away in an instant when a shell had hit their home. Her entire family was gone in an eyeblink, buried under tons of stone rubble._

 _With no one to turn to and with soldiers flooding their small village, Mariam had taken Rami and fled. The idea of leaving their home was terrifying, but the soldiers did not care who they killed. Mariam refused to see her baby brother heartlessly cut down simply for walking down the street. They had joined the wave of people pushed out of their homes by senseless violence, perpetrated by those who were supposed to protect them._

 _Mariam didn't know where she should go. All she knew was that she wanted to get as far away as possible until it was safe to go back. One fleeing family had adopted the two orphans, and despite her sorrow and despair, Mariam had never been so grateful for the kindness of strangers. They had stayed together through the perilous journey into Europe, crossing into Turkey by foot and then into Greece by sea. Mariam and Rami had gotten into a rickety boat that hardly looked worthy to float in a small pond, let alone a large, treacherous body of water like the Mediterranean. The family had taken a different boat. The men that steered their craft stared at her with a look in their eyes that frightened and disgusted Mariam, so she pushed herself behind the dense cluster of passengers, clutching Rami tightly and praying to Allah for hours. She had never felt so vulnerable, or so alone._

 _The strange, threatening men were the least of Mariam's problems. A storm tried to destroy their vessel, tossing it up on waves that were so high that Mariam had to swallow back her fear of heights. They were completely at the mercy of the water, being spun to and fro while nearly drowning in the spray of rain and sea that constantly spat in their faces. It felt like an eternity before the storm slowly moved on, and Mariam sobbed with relief when they finally limped ashore, soaked, cold and hungry. They had made it. The other boat carrying the family that had cared for them had not._

 _When they finally reached France after two harrowing months of travel, she'd had enough. This would be as far as they would go. She remembered learning about France in school, and had hoped that this strange, foreign country with its elegant-sounding language and oddly bland food could be their home, at least for now. The reality of the situation was far from her dreams, but at least they were safe here, even on the streets. The migrant camps at Calais had been filthy and dangerous, but once she and Rami had relocated to Paris, Mariam felt like she could finally breathe. At worst, they would be verbally harassed by the police, but it felt almost polite after the violence of their home country and the riskiness of their journey. Someone had told Mariam about a shelter that might accept them, so they would visit tomorrow and see if this shelter could be their final stop. She put her arm around Rami as he slept, making sure he knew he was loved and that someone was looking out for him._

 _One day, Mariam prayed to have something like a family again, to surround herself with people she could depend on so that she could go back to being a child. But for now, the peace and quiet would do._

tbc

* * *

 _Hello! I come bearing new fic. This is about 80% written (or maybe less, depending on how I decide to end things) and just needs to be edited, so I anticipate being able to update pretty regularly. I'll admit that the first several chapters are going to be pretty slow (like this one), but I promise that it does pick up and there will be some action later. Hopefully it won't be too boring! I realized in writing this that developing plot is definitely not my strength, so if you see any holes that are large enough to fit a truck, I apologize and I'd appreciate it if you kindly ignored it. :D Also, the only Spanish I know I learned from Google, so if any of it is wrong, please feel free to correct me.  
_

 _This story is set a couple of months or so after "Like Gravity", but you do not need to read that to understand this as I'll likely mention any relevant points again here. This will be pretty heavily focused on Aramis, but Athos, Porthos and D'Artagnan will obviously be present and involved since Aramis without his brothers isn't really Aramis at all. :) Other characters from the show will pop up as well, but it doesn't follow any particular story line from the series. And despite some of those characters, there will be no romance here, just platonic and familial relationships.  
_

 _Finally (sorry for the long A/N, won't do this again I promise), this is unbetaed so all mistakes are mine mine mine. And as a disclaimer, this is not written for profit, just for fun. Any recognizable characters belong to Dumas and BBC._

 _Thanks for reading!_


	2. Chapter 2

_The display of confections behind the window was truly impressive. Small, golden cubes of chewy caramels, decadent round truffles dusted with a coating of reddish-brown cocoa powder and clusters of crunchy nuts wrapped in a blanket of velvety dark chocolate stared at Aramis, enticing him with their rich, forbidden sweetness. The seven-year old boy swallowed, feeling an empty pit in his stomach. He'd eaten breakfast, but it hadn't been enough for his growing frame._

 _"Those look good, don't they, Aramis?" A skinny blonde girl with big blue eyes pressed her face to the window next to him. She was a few years older than Aramis, and like him she wore thrift shop hand-me-downs that were worn and stained despite her mother's best effort to keep the clothing clean and decent._

 _Aramis nodded, licking his lips. "I like chocolate," he said. He liked it best when his mamá brought home small, cheap bars. They would sit on the lumpy mattress of their rented hotel room and break off little chunks, laughing as they tossed the sweet pieces into each other's mouths, adding them up and subtracting the ones that missed._

 _"Me too," Pauline agreed._

 _"Can I have one?" Aramis looked up at his companion, his brown eyes wide and yearning. He'd quickly learned that if he looked at people this way, he could get what he wanted more often than not. It was much more effective than crying, and Aramis mercilessly used this trick whenever he could. Despite the fact that Pauline knew exactly what Aramis was up to, she had no defense against his innocent, longing expression. And the candies did indeed look very good._

 _"Well..." Pauline trailed off. She took out her little coin purse and felt at the soft pouch. Every once in a while she'd find money that some tourist had dropped, or Louise would give her a few francs to purchase some small items. If Pauline was very prudent, there would be some change left over that she would keep for herself. She'd had a run of good luck lately, and her purse felt full. Still, she eyed the treats skeptically. They did not look cheap. With a sigh, she made up her mind._

 _"Come on," she said, taking the little boy's hand. "Let's go see if we can get something."_

 _The two children pushed the door open and walked into the cool, cozy shop. It smelled incredibly good inside, like melted chocolate and hot sugar. They approached the counter where an even greater variety of sweets were on display. The woman behind the register, a large, elderly lady with gray hair wrapped into a very tight bun, looked down her nose at them. Aramis stared up at her, wondering why she looked like she had tasted something unpleasant. Were the chocolates bad?_

 _"We don't give out free samples," the shopkeeper said coldly._

 _Pauline frowned, her chin tilting up. "We don't want free samples. We'd like to buy something."_

 _The disagreeable look on the woman's face deepened and Aramis scrunched his nose. His bright little mind was sharply attuned to the moods and temperaments of those around him, and it was clear to him that this lady did not like them and wanted them gone. Aramis had found that complete strangers sometimes reacted to him this way, even when he was on his very best behavior, and he'd yet to figure out why. Aramis tugged on Pauline's hand, his desire for chocolates forgotten. He didn't know why some people didn't like him, but he did know that if he didn't remove himself quickly enough that yelling and anger often followed. Aramis didn't want Pauline to get into trouble too._

 _Pauline pulled her hand away from his. "Aramis, why don't you pick out something you'd like? You can pick something for me too, okay? Make sure it's good." She gave him a small smile._

 _"I don't want the candy anymore, Pauline," Aramis whispered loudly. "Can we go?"_

 _Pauline bent down and pushed his wild brown curls off his forehead. "Let's get something first. Pick what you want, Aramis. You can save it for later if you don't want to eat it now."_

 _Aramis thought about it and decided that would be fine by him. If Pauline was staying, so was he. He went up to the counter, eyes wide as he surveyed the fancy sweets. His mouth watered as thought about eating them, each and every one. After a long moment, he finally settled on two square, light brown pieces that had darker lines of chocolate squiggled over them. The tag in front promised that there would be caramel inside._

 _"I want these," Aramis said, pointing._

 _With a put-upon grunt, the old woman pulled out the two pieces and wrapped them in a cellophane bag. When she told Pauline how much it would cost, the girl upended her entire coin purse on the counter and carefully counted out the necessary amount. After she paid, only a few coins went back into the pouch. The shopkeeper recounted the money before putting it into her register._

 _"Come on Aramis, let's go," Pauline said._

 _Before they exited the shop, Aramis suddenly remembered his manners and turned to the grumpy lady. "Merci, madame," he said politely, giving the woman a formal little bow. His mamá always told him that he should treat people with kindness and respect, no matter who they were. He grudgingly supposed that included the shopkeeper as well._

 _Once outside, Pauline and Aramis sat down on the curb and eagerly opened the bag. They bit into the confections, the chocolate melting against their little fingers under the hot Mediterranean sun._

 _"Do you like it?" Pauline asked, her face lighting up with bliss as she savored the sweetness on her tongue._

 _"It's really good," Aramis replied, smiling around a mouthful of chocolate and caramel. He was a very happy little boy. "Thank you, Pauline."_

 _"Of course," Pauline said, wrapping an affectionate arm around his slight shoulders._

* * *

"Aramis! How are you?"

A pretty black woman with her curly hair tied back in a kerchief welcomed him with a warm smile as he walked into the run-down stone building. It served as a small provisional shelter and aid center for migrant children that ended up in France, run independently of the government aid centers that had been slow to go up. Sylvie's establishment helped minors with applications for refugee status, educated them and placed them in independent homes or with families that were willing to house the children on a more permanent basis. Most importantly, she provided a home for those that had none, allowing them wait out the process in a caring environment. Providing a safe haven for those youth that had traveled to Paris alone and unprotected was a passion project for Sylvie Bodin, who was a child of migrants herself. It was an endeavor that Aramis deeply respected.

"Excellent, especially now that I have the pleasure of your company." Aramis greeted his friend with a light peck on the cheek and a tight hug. "You look lovely as always."

Sylvie looked down at the torn jeans and faded old t-shirt she was wearing. "Yes, I'm just a vision of elegance, aren't I?"

"Without a doubt," Aramis replied immediately. He made a grand, sweeping gesture. "What you wear on the outside can't hide the beauty that shines through from within, my dear Sylvie."

The woman laughed with a shake of her head, slapping him lightly on the arm. "Good lord, that's terrible. You've dropped a lot of really bad lines over the last few years and I'm pretty sure that's the worst one yet."

Aramis pressed his hand over his heart. "Now that's just hurtful," he said sincerely. "I'll have you know that I always save my very best for you."

The young woman rolled her eyes, still grinning as she led Aramis into a small storage room filled with unopened boxes. They sidestepped a couple of young kids that flashed wildly down the hall, one of them joyfully screaming "Salut, Monsieur Aramis!" in heavily accented French as she ran by. An older boy named Didier, with smooth, dark skin and the long gangly limbs of a growing teenager, followed them at a more sedate pace, solemnly nodding his greeting as he walked by.

"You're terrible, you know that?"

"I do. But you still like me anyway." Aramis stood with his hands on his hips and surveyed the stacks of cardboard from the doorway with a sigh. "I'm guessing you want me to sort through the donations."

"It would be a great help. I just haven't had the time," Sylvie confessed somewhat sheepishly. "You know what it's been like." The shelter had seen an increase in traffic over the past month or so, flowing with the sporadic influx of refugees into the city.

"Of course. Whatever you need me to do." Aramis had to admit that sifting through the items that were contributed to the shelter was not one of his favorite activities. In general, he found that the majority of the things they received were broken, stained or torn and generally of little use. While he did genuinely appreciate the spirit of giving, it never ceased to amaze him that people found it appropriate to donate things that were one step removed from garbage. Being forced to throw away so much junk at the end of it all was a bit depressing. _But I suppose it's still better than being stuck behind a desk,_ he thought resignedly.

Aramis lifted one of the heavy boxes from the top of a tall pile and slit it open with a small pocketknife. He started pulling out the various articles stuffed inside and lay them on a large, foldable table. Sylvie stood beside him, absently arranging the items into haphazard piles, and out of habit, Aramis wordlessly took her piles and re-categorized everything. His time in the military had been fairly short, but it had still managed to mar both his body and his tolerance for disorganization. The two worked side by side in a familiar, relaxed rhythm.

"Have you heard from Samir?" Aramis asked after a dark-haired boy that had made his way to Paris from the jungle at Calais, one of many in a vast wave of homeless children that had crashed down on the city after the camps had been shut down. Although Samir was into his teens, his impoverished childhood had stunted his growth, making him look much younger than his actual age. He had arrived at the shelter skittish and sullen over a year ago, and he had been in and out ever since, unwilling or unable to find the stability that so many kids craved.

Sylvie's hands stilled as her face darkened with worry. "No, I haven't."

"How long has it been?"

"It's been almost a month now. I hope he's found himself a better situation, but I just feel like he would have told me if that was the case." No matter how wary the boy had been when he first arrived, he had slowly crawled out of his shell under Sylvie's generous care.

"Do you think he's moved elsewhere?" Aramis paused in his work as well, leaning forward against the table. Something niggled at the back of his mind.

Sylvie shrugged helplessly. "I don't know. I guess it's possible. When I saw him last, he said 'see you later', like he'd be back. I guess I just assumed that he would be."

The former soldier shook his head. "It's the nature of being transient, unfortunately. Things like this will happen and it's out of your control."

"I know." The young woman crossed her arms, hugging herself as if warding off a chill despite the warmth of the room. "I thought that perhaps we'd be able to help Ayana and Yasmine find a permanent home as well, but I haven't seen them in a while either." A glum expression crossed her face. "They've all been through so much, it seems terribly unfair that they arrive at their destination and find that there's nothing here for them. I worry about them. I fear that what we do is just not enough. "

Aramis wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulders, and she leaned into him, easily accepting what he offered. Sylvie did the best she could, but the children she served were grains of sand on a vast shore. "I know you do. You're doing wonderful work here, Sylvie. Keep fighting for them, no matter what. They need it."

"Of course I will. Someone has to." Sylvie took a deep, steadying breath and mustered up a small smile. "But to do so, I'm really going to need these boxes sorted out."

Throwing his head back, Aramis groaned loudly. "You just ruined a touching moment," he said accusingly.

"What can I say? I'm a monster."

Pretending to grumble, Aramis turned back to his duties. As he did so, he heard footsteps approaching as a light, feminine voice called out.

"Sylvie? I'm so sorry to bother you, but have you seen my scarf? I think I might have left it here earlier today."

Aramis frowned. The voice...it prickled his memories, ones that were long buried and faded with time. He turned to find a stylishly dressed, timid-looking blonde woman standing in the doorway. Her face felt familiar to Aramis, but he couldn't quite place her. The woman gave Aramis a bashful smile.

"Oh, yes! You did. I was just going to give it to you when I saw you next." Sylvie waved the woman in. "I'm guessing you two haven't run into each other yet since you're on different schedules. Pauline, meet Aramis. Aramis has been volunteering here for years now. Aramis, this is Pauline. She just joined us a couple of months ago."

"Pauline?" It was a name from his past, one that stirred up equal measures of affection and sorrow. Even after fifteen years, the grief that Aramis felt at the loss of his mother was still fresh.

"Oh my God, Aramis? Is that you?" A disbelieving smile broke across the woman's face as she eagerly stepped forward. "Why, it is! I can't believe it!"

Aramis beamed at Pauline as he took her into his arms, holding her tightly. "It's so good to see you! It's been too long."

"It has been, hasn't it?" Pauline gave him a small squeeze and stepped back, keeping a hold of his shoulders as she looked him over. "My goodness, I can see Catalina in you from a mile away. You look even more like her now that you did before, Aramis."

Aramis ducked his head, nodding. "I'm glad," he said, his voice becoming suspiciously thick. He paused before clearing his throat and continuing, "How have you been? What have you been doing with yourself?"

"Oh, that is too long a conversation to be had at the moment," Pauline demurred.

"So," Sylvie interrupted, with a pleased yet confused expression on her face, "I take it you know each other?"

"Yes, we do. We go back quite a ways," Pauline replied.

"We grew up together," Aramis explained. "Pauline was like my older sister. We haven't seen each other in about fifteen, sixteen years, I believe? Since we were children, really."

"Oh, wow," Sylvie said, surprised. "What are the odds you'd run into each other here after all that time?"

Pauline laughed. "It's incredible, isn't it?"

Aramis looked back at the donations that were still calling his name. "Pauline, I need to help Sylvie organize all of this, but would you like to go for a drink afterwards? It would be wonderful to catch up. I don't think it should take more than an hour or two." He took another glance at the mess they had left on the table. "Maybe three," he muttered upon reconsideration.

Pauline's face fell as she glanced at her watch. "Oh...I don't know. It's already getting a bit late, and St. Pierre will be waiting for me."

"Oh, come now. Aramis, if you think you could stop by again soon, this can certainly wait. I don't want to be responsible for keeping two long-lost friends apart," Sylvie said, ushering the two of them towards the door.

Aramis tossed her a skeptical look. "Are you sure? I don't want to let things pile up too much."

"Of course. A few days won't make too much difference."

"Would that work for you? I don't want to keep you if you can't." Aramis turned to Pauline, who hesitated a beat before answering.

"Yes, that sounds wonderful."

"I'll swing by again very soon," Aramis promised Sylvie as he gave her a quick embrace. "Thank you." He turned to Pauline and offered her his arm. "There's a nice place just around the corner. We don't have to be long."

Once they bid goodbye to Sylvie, Aramis led Pauline to an open air café nearby where they found a small table on the sidewalk to claim as their own. It wasn't particularly impressive, but Aramis had found the limited selection of drinks and food to be decent. He pulled out a chair for Pauline before taking one for himself.

"I see time has turned you into a gentleman," she teased lightly after they ordered their drinks.

Aramis shrugged with a smile. "Couldn't remain a wild child forever, I suppose."

"I think your mother would have been very pleased. She missed you so much after you were gone."

"I never should have left." It was a lifelong regret that never failed to dredge up equal amounts of guilt and hate. Aramis stared down at the table, scraping agitatedly at the smooth laminate surface with his fingernail. There were many things that Aramis despised about his biological father, but if he was forced to choose the one thing he hated the most, it would undoubtedly be his father's decision to rip him out of his mother's life.

Pauline's gently hand closed over Aramis' own, forcing still his restless fingers. "She knew, Aramis. Catalina prayed for you every day, hoping that you were happy and living the life she thought you deserved but couldn't give you."

A bitter little laugh erupted from the half-Spaniard. "She gave me everything she had, Pauline. Life with her would have been infinitely preferable to anything my father had to offer."

The blonde woman gave Aramis' hand a light squeeze, her blue eyes full of sympathy. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I still have my memories, if nothing else." Aramis took a deep breath, visibly shaking off the melancholy that had settled over him. "Enough about me. How about you? You seem to have done well for yourself," he said, pasting what he hoped was a pleased smile on his lips.

"Oh, yes." Pauline blushed. "I suppose I have. I managed to attend university, Aramis. Can you believe it?"

"Of course I can." Aramis placed a kiss on Pauline's knuckles. "I always knew you were meant for better things. When did you move to Paris?"

"A few years ago."

"I see. I wish I'd known," Aramis said, a touch of wistfulness in his words. "And what have you been doing with yourself since you arrived in this fair city?"

"Social work, mostly, serving as a liaison. I provide support at shelters like Sylvie's, mainly with trying to find more permanent housing situations for those that want it."

"That's a fine calling to heed." This time Aramis gave her a true smile. "And this St. Pierre you mentioned. I assume he is your fiancé?" His brothers teased him about constantly checking for rings on women that he met, but the incredibly large blue diamond sitting on his old friend's delicate finger was a blaring warning sign that couldn't be missed even by the most oblivious man.

"He is. St. Pierre is...well, he's a good man. We've been together for about a year now. He's been able to give me an incredible life, Aramis. It's what I've always wanted." Pauline tilted her head down, making it difficult for Aramis to read her face. When she looked back up, there was a wet sheen to her eyes.

Aramis frowned. "Does he treat you well?"

Pauline's eyes widened as she sniffled. "Absolutely. We have lived very different lives, but he tries so hard to please me."

"You love him."

"I do. I feel like I've been in a fairy tale since I met St. Pierre."

"And...does he know? About your past?"

Pauline's lips pressed together, tears spilling down her cheeks as she shook her head. "No. He doesn't. I can't bring myself to tell him."

"Oh, Pauline," Aramis sighed. He placed a comforting hand on her back. Aramis knew he should insist that she tell the truth and point out that a relationship built on secrets was bound to crumble, but at the moment he found that he didn't have the heart to destroy the fragile bubble Pauline had apparently built around herself. He knew the pain of the life she had left behind. He had watched both of their mothers suffer through it, and had witnessed Pauline's own inevitable descent as well. He could understand why she chose to keep it hidden. "I'm glad you escaped that life," he said instead. "I wish you nothing but happiness."

"Thank you," Pauline said, trying to control her weeping. "I missed you terribly, Aramis. Things were hard after you left."

"I missed you too. I thought of you often." Aramis dejectedly ran a hand over his face. "I wish I hadn't left you behind. Any of you."

Pauline nodded, trying to sniffle away her tears. She put on a brave face. "And what have you been up to for all these years?"

Aramis allowed her to change the subject and lightened his tone a bit, trying to steer the conversation away from sensitive subjects. "A bit of this and a bit of that," he said airily with a loose wave of the hand. "I spent some time in the military after school, and then I went into investigations and security with my friends. It's been good work."

A little furrow appeared between Pauline's brows. "You're a cop?"

"Ah, no. Desailly would have a fit if he knew you asked me that," Aramis snickered, thinking about the police lieutenant that they often worked with. "We cooperate with them on some of our cases and we have small contracts with the government, but I work for a small private firm run by an old mentor of mine. We have a bit more leeway, I suppose, in the assignments we take and the way we approach them."

"Oh, I see. That sounds very...interesting."

"It is, mostly. Unless I get stuck with paperwork." Aramis shuddered playfully. "To be fair, my boss probably dreads the days I'm on paperwork duty more than I do."

Pauline gave him a wan smile. "Always causing trouble, I'm sure."

Aramis laughed. "Athos would certainly agree with that."

"Who's Athos?"

"He is one of three brothers that I've been blessed with since finding myself in Paris," Aramis said fondly. "I would love for you to meet them, Pauline."

"It seems like they mean a lot to you."

"They mean everything to me," Aramis murmured, taking a moment to savor his incredible luck. "Anyway, I don't want to keep you too long," he continued, laying down some money on the table to cover their drinks. "And please forgive me - it seems I've caused you more stress than joy with our reunion." He helped Pauline to her feet, who was looking a bit pale and unsteady after their conversation.

"Nonsense. I really am so happy to see you again, Aramis. I'm glad that we've found each other again after so long." She slid her hand into his and gave it a squeeze.

"I am too, Pauline. I hope to see you again soon."

"I'm sure you will." Pauline gave Aramis another watery smile.

"Will you be safe getting home? Would you like me to accompany you?"

"Aramis, please. You forget who you're talking to," Pauline reminded him. "Besides, I can have St. Pierre send a car if I need it."

"Of course." Aramis huffed out a small chuckle. His dear old friend was now living the life of the wealthy, it seemed. It was a far cry from the times they shared with each other. "Goodbye, Pauline. Take care."

Aramis leaned over to give her another hug and watched as she walked away, passing by a man that had been loitering at the corner, smoking and leaning casually against a wall. He was dressed loosely in a dark hoodie and black jeans, blending easily into the shadows between halos of light cast by the street lamps. Aramis frowned when the man flicked his cigarette away and began to follow her, addressing Pauline as she walked along. She seemed startled by the stranger's presence, jumping nervously when she noticed him. Aramis started forward when the stranger grabbed at Pauline's arm, his eyes narrowing dangerously as he watched his friend pull away and gesture nervously.

"Pauline? Is this man bothering you?" Aramis kept his posture loose and relaxed as he approached, not wanting to seem threatening - yet.

"What? Oh...no, Aramis, I'm fine." Pauline seemed alarmed when she heard him. "No need to concern yourself."

The man that had accosted Pauline turned to face Aramis and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. There was no open animosity on the stranger's face, nothing in the way he stood or looked that seemed menacing, but Aramis instantly recognized the man as a predator.

"Are you sure?" Aramis addressed Pauline but kept his eyes locked on the other man, who coolly stared back with assessing eyes.

"Yes, of course," Pauline said with a little wave.

"Do you know this man?"

"I...I do. He's an old friend. Really, Aramis. Please don't worry about it. I just forgot that we were supposed to meet."

Aramis finally tore his gaze away from the other man. Something rang false in Pauline's voice, but Aramis found that she had already taken the stranger's arm and had moved in close by his side. He considered the two of them for another minute before releasing a small sigh. Against his better judgement, he stepped away.

"You have my number?"

Pauline nodded.

"Don't hesitate to call me if you need to, Pauline."

The blonde woman gave a shrill little laugh that made Aramis wince. "I'll be fine, Aramis. I can take care of myself."

"I don't doubt it," Aramis muttered as a large, expensive-looking town car drove up to the curb. The stranger, who hadn't said a single word during the entire exchange, indicated that Pauline should get in. Aramis stood and watched with his arms crossed as the car pulled away and rounded the corner, his uneasiness intensifying. He took note of the license plate almost out of habit and tucked the information away in the back of his mind. Notwithstanding Pauline's protests, something was off. It didn't take his well-developed sixth sense to figure that out.

Running his fingers through his hair, Aramis gave himself a little shake and pointed himself towards home. Seeing his childhood friend again so unexpectedly had been bittersweet. There was no question that he was delighted to see her, to reconnect with someone that knew where he came from. That part of his life seemed so distant and faint now that it was wonderfully reassuring to know that it hadn't been an idyllic daydream he had conjured to comfort himself. It had been real, and his beloved mother had been real.

On the other hand, he could never think about his mother without thinking about _him._ He hated that the two were so firmly intertwined in his mind. He was ashamed to admit that it had taken him longer than it should have to forgive his mother, but his father...forgiveness was out of the question. He could almost feel his mother's disappointment at his stubbornness.

 _Get over it,_ Aramis firmly reprimanded himself. _You've made your peace with it, so move on._ He found it easier said than done, however. Pauline had unintentionally peeled open those mental wounds again, and Aramis found that the regret he felt was still as deep and raw as the day he'd been forced to leave his mother's home.

His feet moved of their own accord, and Aramis decided not to pay attention to where they carried him. He meandered along the streets of Paris, effectively cutting off his thoughts and absently allowing the glittering night beauty of the city to soothe his agitation. He eventually found himself along the banks of the Seine, and he stood on one of the many bridges that crossed the river, leaning against the railing and staring out at the puddles of lamplight reflected in the dark water. Aramis didn't know how long he lingered there letting his mind drift, but when he shook himself out of stupor, he was decidedly chilled. A glance at his watch told him that he'd been wandering about, mentally and physically, for several hours.

It took forty minutes or so for Aramis to make his way back to his building, choosing to walk rather than take transportation. As he made his way to his flat, he stopped in front of Porthos' door, his fist raised to knock. The thought that it was past two o'clock in the morning and that Porthos was likely sleeping stopped him before he made actual contact. While he knew that Porthos would answer and let him in, Aramis suddenly felt a bit embarrassed about waking his friend over...nothing, really.

"Goodnight, Porthos," Aramis whispered before stepping away. He could deal with the tumultuous space inside his head on his own. There would be time enough to speak to his brothers later.

* * *

"Are you going to eat that? Or are you just going to sit there and torture your breakfast?"

Aramis looked up from where he had been picking listlessly at his croissant. Since Athos had placed it in front of him, Porthos had watched Aramis quietly tear the pastry into tiny buttery flakes without actually putting any of it into his mouth.

"What?" It took a second for Aramis' eyes to focus on the present. "Oh, right." He picked up one of the larger crumbs and ate, chewing absently.

The big man briefly frowned at the dark smudges under his friend's eyes before breaking into a roguish grin, the mangled pastry forgotten.

"So," Porthos leaned forward over the island counter. "Have a late night?"

Aramis hummed distractedly at him as he took a long sip of his coffee. He closed his eyes and sighed with pleasure as the warm, caffeinated liquid slid down his throat.

"Athos, your skill with a coffee pot is excellent. Second to none," he complimented. Porthos rolled his eyes at Aramis' obvious attempt to dodge the question.

Athos nodded in acknowledgement. "The same could be said about your taste in wines. Serge told us last night that you've been setting aside bottles for us."

"Oh." Aramis self-consciously ran a hand over his messy curls. Porthos could tell he hadn't taken the time to look in the mirror before running upstairs to Athos and D'Artagnan's place for breakfast. "It's just for a little variety."

"It's appreciated, although I'm not sure your assessment of my own tastes was quite accurate," Athos said with a quirk of his lips. "Serge asked after you last night."

"I'll be sure to swing by and say hello," Aramis replied as he hopped down from the bar stool he was perched upon. "Sorry about this, mes amis, but I think I'm going to go back to bed to catch a few more hours. Enjoy your breakfast, and I'll see you later."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Just tired," Aramis replied, smiling at D'Artagnan's earnest question.

Porthos, on the other hand, frowned at his weary-looking friend. "Is that all?" he prodded. He normally wouldn't press the issue, but he couldn't take Aramis' explanation at face value. Porthos had known Aramis for a very long time, and over the years he'd grown to be an expert at reading the man's subtly shifting moods. He didn't know what the problem was, but it was more than a lack of sleep that was affecting his brother. A glance at Athos told him that the other man had also picked up on it. D'Artagnan, on the other hand, looked a bit confused but wisely held his tongue, his eyes pinging rapidly between the three older men.

"Yes, Porthos. That's all." Aramis sounded half amused, half annoyed.

"Are you sure?"

Aramis sighed, placing his hands on his hips. "If I asked you to just let it be, would you?"

"Not a chance," Porthos said without a shred of remorse.

"Not even if I asked very nicely?"

The resignation in his brother's voice made him wince inside, but his response was firm. "Nope."

Head tilted up, Aramis let out a small groan in anticipation of the interrogation he knew was forthcoming. Evasion would only delay the inevitable. "It's not anything, I swear. I ran into an old friend last night, and it just caught me off guard. That's all."

A small furrow appeared on Athos' brow. "How old of a friend? I'm assuming it's not someone we know."

"It's not. She's someone I knew from...before."

"She?" Porthos' eyebrows went up. "Is this 'friend' from one of your previous flings?" His eyes widened with an abrupt realization. "Wait a minute, you didn't get someone pregnant, did you?"

"What? No!" Aramis gave Porthos a profoundly annoyed look. "How is that the first thing that comes to your mind? First of all, you know I'm always careful. Second, I am capable of being friends with women, you know. I don't sleep with every single woman I come across, despite what you apparently think."

"Okay, fine. Sorry." Porthos held up his hands in a placating gesture in the face of Aramis' irritation. "So this lady friend of yours, you knew her when? Before us?"

"Yes. Pauline and I were friends before I met any of you," Aramis snapped. He didn't bother to elaborate.

"Ah. I see," Porthos muttered, a bit deflated. Suddenly, his brother's edginess made sense.

An awkward silence hung in the air while the four men waited for someone to break it.

"Well, that was fun," Aramis finally said. "If that's all, I'm going to show myself out." Aramis turned on his heel and stalked out of the kitchen, his fists jammed into the pockets of the hoodie he had hastily thrown on over his sleepwear.

"Aramis, wait." Porthos chased after his friend, unwilling to let him go in a disagreeable mood. He caught the Aramis by the shoulder just as he was about to open the front door.

"What?" He sounded sharp but allowed Porthos' grip to remain in place.

"Look...I'm sorry. I didn't realize."

Porthos could feel Aramis take a deep breath to calm himself. "It's fine, don't worry about it. You couldn't have known." He reached up and gave Porthos' hand a light pat. There was no longer any heat in his voice, just a hint of tightness.

"Well, I know now. I can see why you'd be rattled. If you want to get if off your chest, you know where to find me." _And if you don't come find me, you'd better believe I'm coming to find you,_ Porthos finished silently.

Aramis turned his head and gave Porthos a small smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling with genuine appreciation. "Thank you, mon ami."

"Alright. Get some sleep." Porthos released the other man, and Aramis gave him a small nod before leaving.

Porthos blew out a breath and rubbed at the back of his head after the door closed behind Aramis. "That probably could have gone better," he sighed to himself.

As he returned to the kitchen, he found the other two cleaning up the remnants of their breakfast. It seemed as if their appetites had departed along with their absent friend. With a shrug, Porthos snagged one of the remaining pastries and took a big bite. D'Artagnan looked up at him as the remnants of Aramis' shredded croissant slid into the garbage.

"Is he alright? Is something wrong?" D'Artagnan asked, his face creasing with concern.

"Nah, he'll be fine," Porthos replied automatically around a sweet mouthful. _Eventually._ "He just needs some time. And maybe some sleep." He heard Athos grunt skeptically from his position over the sink.

"Oh." Porthos could tell that D'Artagnan was bursting with curiosity, but he could also tell that their youngest and newest brother was hesitant about overstepping his bounds. D'Artagnan was undoubtedly one of them, but there were still some doors that were not yet open to him.

"Aramis had a...difficult youth," Athos explained vaguely, turning as he wiped his hands on a kitchen towel. "Even I don't know the all of the details, but suffice it to say that many of his memories are likely not pleasant."

"That's an understatement," Porthos muttered.

"What happened to him?" D'Artagnan asked.

"Life happened. A shitty life. Sorry pup, but it's Aramis' story to tell." Porthos gave D'Artagnan a hearty clap on the shoulder to stave off any feelings of exclusion. "He turned out alright though, yeah? And he's got us now."

"Uh, sure," the Gascon agreed somewhat uncertainly. "So should we talk to him, or something?"

"We should. Or at least one of us should." Athos looked at Porthos. "Do you want to, or shall I?"

"Yeah, I will." Porthos polished off the rest of his raisin-studded bun. He'd hunt his friend down and have a little chat, but he'd give Aramis the courtesy of some time and space to gather himself first.

 _tbc_

* * *

 _I couldn't find a last name for Sylvie from the show so I made one up. If she has one, please let me know! Thanks for reading!_


	3. Chapter 3

_The flashback (italicized) part of this chapter is rated M for some salty language._

* * *

 _The door flew open and Aramis looked up from his position on the bed. He was lying comfortably on his stomach, flipping through the pages of a ragged textbook as he scribbled in his notebook. His mamá and a tall stranger walked through, their arms entwined. She looked up at the tall man by her side, her face shining with bright joy. Aramis' heart perked up when he saw how happy his mamá was. Such an expression was rare these days._

 _"What is it that you wanted to tell me?" the man asked, looking down into Catalina's beautiful face. He hadn't noticed Aramis yet._

 _"Well..." Catalina said playfully, drawing out her accented French. She gestured at Aramis and he obeyed immediately, climbing off the bed, homework forgotten. Catalina released the stranger's arm and came around to stand behind Aramis, wrapping her arm lovingly around his shoulders. Aramis stared up curiously at the man that his mamá had brought with her. She never brought her customers home. What made this one so special? The man stared back at him with an unreadable look on his face. He was handsome, with dark hair and blue eyes._

 _"This is René. He is your son, mi amado."_

 _"What?" Confusion flooded the man's face._

 _"He is your son. Our son." There was such pride and love in Catalina's voice when she said those words._

 _"Are you fucking kidding me?" The stranger tore his eyes away from Aramis and turned on Catalina. His pleasant face flushed with rage, turning it ugly and dark. "Is this some kind of sick joke?"_

 _"I would not joke about something like this," Catalina retorted, her fiery temper flashing through. "He is yours. You are his father."_

 _"You're lying! If you're trying to get something from me, it's not going to happen, you stupid whore," the man shouted. His eyes flashed dangerously and Aramis tensed._

 _"I am not lying! How dare you accuse me of such a thing?" Catalina's arm tightened protectively around her child._

 _"You have no proof! How the hell could you let this happen, you dumb bitch?" He took a step towards them, gesturing vehemently._

 _Aramis couldn't contain himself any longer. He squirmed out of his mamá's grip and stepped away from her, pointing his finger at the man. "Don't talk to my mother like that," he yelled, with all the fury an eleven-year old could muster._

 _"Hush, Aramis, mijito." Catalina pulled him back and turned him around. She tenderly took his face in her hands and caressed his cheeks his her thumbs. He was nearly as tall as she was, gangly and almost painfully skinny. There was a shimmer of tears in her large brown eyes. "Why don't you go find Pauline? Go play for a while."_

 _Aramis shook his head. He was very wary about leaving his mamá alone with this terribly angry man. Their conversation had flowed over him, and his mind had not yet registered the actual words being said. "No. I'm staying here with you."_

 _"It's fine, let him stay." The man took a deep breath and smiled. The change was startling. The same smile that looked back at Aramis from the mirror graced this stranger's face. "I'm sorry, Catalina. I didn't mean to yell at you, I was just so surprised. I thought you said you were always careful."_

 _"I was careful, but accidents happen," Catalina said, placing a quick kiss on the top of Aramis' head to take away the sting of her words._

 _"Why didn't you tell me?" For some reason, the question sounded menacing even though the man asked in a gentle tone._

 _"I wanted to, but I had no way of contacting you, mi amor. You promised to come back to me, and...I thought you'd be returning sooner than you did."_

 _"I see. Still, you had no right to keep this from me." The tall man crouched down. "Come here, boy." He gestured at Aramis, urging him forward. Catalina gave Aramis a little push, encouraging him to move. He did so with great reluctance._

 _"I have a son," the man murmured, taking hold of Aramis' shoulders. His grip was painful, but Aramis endured it with silence. "Do you know me?"_

 _"No," Aramis replied sullenly. "I don't."_

 _"I'm your father."_

 _"No you're not," Aramis insisted. "I don't have a father." He'd never had one, and he never felt the need for one. His mamá, Louise and Pauline were enough for him._

 _"You do now, boy. You're mine."_

 _"No, I'm not! I don't belong to you," Aramis cried out, trying to wrench himself away from the man's tight grasp. "Let go of me!"_

 _There were some kids at school that had teased Aramis about not having a father, about not being French, about being poor. They had whispered cruel, terrible rumors about his mother, and he was not shy about getting into fights in order to defend her honor. He would attack with his awkward limbs flailing about, uncertain as to how things were supposed to proceed but understanding that he did not want to be the one that ended up on the ground. Aramis handled it all, despite the constant reprimands from his teachers and the disappointment in his mamá's face every time he came home scraped up and bloody. He did not need this threatening stranger showing up in his life now, laying undeserved claim to him and is mamá._

 _The man held onto a struggling Aramis for a second longer before letting go abruptly. The boy staggered from the sudden release and tumbled backwards. He landed awkwardly on his wrist and grunted at the twinge of pain that raced up his arm. Catalina rushed to her son, checking to see if he was alright. Aramis got to his feet without her help, cradling his hand against his chest and scowling at the man._

 _"He's a bit clumsy, isn't he?" the man asked. "He could also really use some manners."_

 _"I am sorry, René," Catalina said distractedly to her lover as she tried to take a look at Aramis' arm. "I think he is just very surprised, as you were. I never told him." She frowned when Aramis twisted away from her. "Mi cariño, are you okay? Let mamá see."_

 _"He'll be fine," René said dismissively. "Let's go. You promised me a fun night." He seized Catalina and began to drag her away from Aramis._

 _"No stop, please! He's hurt. I need to take care of him."_

 _"I'm fine." Aramis could see his mamá was distressed, and that her attempts to free herself from the man - his supposed father - was causing her pain. "It's nothing."_

 _"See? There you go. My son's a tough little kid."_

 _Aramis plastered a brave smile onto his face as Catalina was drawn away from him. The sooner this horrible man went away, the better. Aramis was already looking forward to his absence. It couldn't come quickly enough._

* * *

While he hadn't been lying when he said was tired, when he entered his flat Aramis found that he was far too wound up to even think about sleeping. It was the same problem he'd had when he'd returned home the previous evening. Sliding down with his back against the door, Aramis sat on the floor, legs bent and elbows pressed against his knees as he cradled his head in his hands.

"What is wrong with you?" he murmured, disappointed with himself.

Aramis loved his brothers dearly, and knew that they would not - and did not - judge him for his past. Porthos especially, as they had met shortly after one of the lowest points of Aramis' life. When he'd gotten home the previous night, he thought that perhaps he could share the turmoil in his head, and that they could help him smooth it out. However, at some point during the long, restless hours he spent tossing and turning in bed, he'd soured on the idea. Instead, Aramis had found himself deeply frustrated with his apparent inability to deal with something that happened so long ago. It was probably fair to say that he'd already been feeling contrary by the time he'd tiredly dragged himself upstairs to Athos and D'Artagnan's place for their customary weekend breakfast.

Now, moping alone on the floor of his flat, Aramis could admit that he felt somewhat foolish, overreacting for no reason at all. Unwilling to sit and wallow any longer, he levered himself to his feet. Making a mental note to apologize to his brothers later, Aramis decided that he needed to move, to find a distraction. Remembering the work he'd left undone, he decided to pay Sylvie another visit. Whatever busywork she had for him was always a welcome diversion. He hoped he might run into Pauline as well - a quick text he'd sent in the morning had so far gone unanswered.

Although spring had finally arrived in Paris, the sky was depressingly overcast and the lack of sun allowed a damp chill to roll over the city. Aramis hunched his shoulders against the wind as he walked along, grateful for the knit cap he'd pulled down over his messy hair before he'd gone out. It was one hat in a collection of many; wearing some sort of head covering was a habit he'd picked up during his long recovery years ago. After having his head shaved against his will, he'd also privately sworn to never willingly wear his hair short again. He was certain that Athos and Porthos viewed his longer hair as a small vanity - and Aramis was indeed aware that it suited him quite well - but for him, both the hats and the hair were personal acts of defiance in the face of the wounds that had nearly killed him.

Heading east towards the edges of the city, Aramis slowly ambled along the streets of Paris' poorer arrondissements. The buildings here showed obvious signs of wear and tear, the sidewalks were cracked and uneven and many of the metal shutters pulled over abandoned shop windows were tagged with layers of graffiti. He nodded to a couple of young men that were smoking in the doorway of a tiny bodega as he passed them by. Although he lived in one of the nicer districts now, working-class neighborhoods still offered him a comfortable familiarity. When Aramis finally arrived at the shelter, he found it mostly empty. Stepping inside, he wandered along the hallway, happy to be in out of the chill.

"Sylvie? Are you here?"

"Aramis?" Sylvie's voice drifted from the back of the building. "Is that you?"

"The one and only," Aramis murmured to himself as he followed the sound of his friend's voice.

Sylvie's head popped out from the doorway of one of the backrooms as Aramis passed by. "Hey there. Back so soon?"

"Well, I didn't get quite enough of your company last night, so..." Aramis trailed off from his customary flirting as he carefully studied her face. There was a gloomy look in her eyes that he was not pleased to see. "What's wrong?"

"What do you mean?"

"You look...upset? Worried? I'm not sure." Aramis leaned up against the wall, cocking his head to the side and crossing his arms as he regarded the woman before him. "Did something happen?"

Sylvie sighed, rubbing a tired hand across her forehead. "No, not really. Well, maybe. I don't know." She made a small, vexed noise. "I think I'm just becoming paranoid."

"I find that hard to believe. Has someone been bothering you?" A hard edge slipped into the former soldier's voice. It wouldn't be the first time.

"No, no it's nothing like that. It's the kids. Or another one of them, anyway. Mariam didn't come in last night. She left Rami here during the day and then never returned."

Aramis frowned. "Where did she go?"

Sylvie threw her hands up in the air. "I don't know. She never said anything to me."

"Mariam wouldn't leave Rami by himself. Not for long, anyway." Aramis felt a pit open up in his stomach. The orphaned siblings had been ushered into Sylvie's shelter nearly three months ago and were awaiting word on their refugee status. The two were quiet as they spoke only a little French, but they were well-behaved and eager to learn. Aramis had spent hours with them since they'd arrived, his atrocious Arabic drawing peals of easy laughter out of little Rami. Mariam had been a tougher nut to crack. She was a lovely teenager, fiercely protective of her younger brother. She watched the world through wary eyes, and every once in a while, Aramis would catch a glimpse of rage and grief flashing across her face. He understood completely.

"No, she absolutely wouldn't," Sylvie said.

"Do you think something happened to her?" In some ways, the petite girl reminded Aramis of his own brothers. Of Porthos, in particular. She wouldn't leave Rami behind. Not without good reason.

Sylvie shrugged helplessly. "I have no idea. Maybe? I can't help but feel like a steady stream of them have disappeared recently. Something feels wrong." She gave a small, humorless laugh. "Paranoid, right?"

There was a moment of silence as Aramis considered her explanation, and the furrow in his brow deepened. "Perhaps, perhaps not. These kids are very vulnerable."

"I know. It's possible that some of them have decided to just sleep rough for whatever reason, or have left for the coast again. But I just have a hard time wrapping my head around the idea that Mariam would leave without her brother."

Aramis nodded in agreement, his concern mounting steadily. "Have you talked to Rami? Asked him if he knows where Mariam might have gone?"

"I tried earlier this morning, but I didn't get very far. His French disappears when he's upset."

That was unfortunately the case with many of the children at the shelter. Aramis knew that it was one of the many things that made it so easy to take advantage of them. "Can I try talking to him?"

Sylvie sighed. "If you'd like. I don't think you're going to get very far."

As it turned out, Sylvie was correct and questioning Rami was indeed an exercise in futility. The young boy's French was too broken to express anything beyond a yearning for his missing sister.

"Did she tell you anything before she left? Did Mariam say where she was going?" Aramis asked quietly, crouching down so that he was at eye level with the little boy. He repeated himself in equally broken Arabic when the boy looked at him with a confused look.

"No," Rami replied. "No. She said to wait with Didier, and I did. Why didn't she come back?"

Aramis' heart cracked at the boy's confusion. He gently wiped away the child's tears from his cheeks. "Do you know if she spoke to anyone, someone you didn't recognize?"

Rami shook his head adamantly, as only a child could. "Where is Mariam? I want her," he said miserably, staring at Aramis with sorrow and fear painted on his innocent face. Rami was a beautiful little boy. With short light brown hair and solemn green eyes, he was a miniature male replica of his older sister. "I miss her, Monsieur Aramis."

"I know you do," Aramis said softly. "We are going to find her, I promise." He gathered the little boy into his arms and carefully held him for a second. Rami clung to his neck, and Aramis could feel his distress in the strength of his grip. Aramis did his best to console him before Sylvie came in to retrieve him, and then restlessly paced the length of the room until she returned.

"Is Didier here?" he asked.

"No, he's not. He's at the processing center right now."

"Have you reported this?"

"You mean to the police?" Sylvie made a dejected noise. "So that they can laugh at me and tell me to be on my way? I already tried when Ayana and Yasmine didn't return."

Aramis eyes narrowed at the callous response, but he had to admit he wasn't surprised.

"They're unregistered immigrants, Aramis." Sylvie continued. "The police aren't going to waste resources looking for them."

"They will if we have evidence that someone might be actively making them disappear. My team can look into it," Aramis said determinedly, confident that his brothers would have his back. "I won't let this go, Sylvie. I promise."

Sylvie took a deep breath and gave Aramis a wavering smile. "Not knowing is the worst, part, you know? If I could be certain that they were okay when they stop showing up here, that they've found some other safe space, it wouldn't feel so bad."

"If there's something going on, we'll figure it out. Who knows, maybe Mariam will return on her own this afternoon and we can laugh about how ridiculous we were to worry." Aramis said. He gave his friend a little squeeze, trying to provide whatever reassurance he could.

"Thank you," Sylvie said gratefully. "You can't know how much I appreciate it. It helps to know someone else cares."

"Of course I do." Aramis placed an affectionate kiss on her temple. "In the meantime, I believe there are some boxes with my name on them?"

* * *

Porthos stood before the very familiar door that was two down from his own. It was painted a bland off-white like his, but had the number thirty-four on it rather than thirty. He raised his fist and pounded firmly against the wooden surface.

"Yes?" Aramis' voice drifted faintly from inside.

"Aramis? It's me," Porthos called out, pleased that he'd caught Aramis at home. He'd dropped by earlier in the day and had been unsurprised to find that his friend was out.

"It's unlocked. Come in."

Porthos let himself in and made his way through Aramis' spartan, one-bedroom flat. He found his friend in the kitchen, fixing himself a sandwich for dinner.

"You want one?" Aramis pointed to the plate that held a split baguette stuffed with meat and only God knew what else. Porthos cautiously lifted the top layer of bread and was relieved not to find any of the odd vegetables that Aramis and Athos both seemed so fond of hiding inside their food. Neither Porthos nor D'Artagnan could understand why the two other men insisted on ruining their sandwiches by adding anything other than meat, cheese and a generous smear of mustard. It was an ongoing point of contention between the four friends.

"Yeah, I'll take one. Glad to see that you've finally figured out how to make a proper sandwich."

Aramis rolled his eyes as he took a quick bite of his dinner and grabbed another small baton of bread. "It's not by choice. I didn't have time to stop by the market today," he explained. "Otherwise you can be sure that these would have been full of terrible things like tomatoes and spinach."

Porthos made a disgusted face as he propped himself against the kitchen counter, watching his friend as he efficiently prepared the promised food. Porthos took a big bite of the sandwich Aramis had handed him and closed his eyes in bliss. "Oh, that's good. It's so much better when there's nothing to get in the way of all that meat and cheese."

Aramis eyed his own meal somewhat doubtfully. "As long as one of us is enjoying it, I suppose that's fine." He toyed with the edge of his plate with a small sigh. "Look, Porthos. I'm sorry about my tantrum this morning. I don't know what came over me."

The big man chewed thoughtfully as he considered his friend. "Don't worry about it. It seemed like you'd had a bit of a shock," he replied cautiously.

"You could say that." Aramis gave up any pretense of eating as he leaned back against the counter with his arms crossed.

"You want to tell me about it?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"You know I do." Porthos finished his food and tried not to hungrily stare at Aramis' half-eaten meal. He knew he'd failed when Aramis pushed the plate over to him.

"Pauline and I grew up together. My mother and her mother worked together."

"Ah, I see. She knew your mum." Aramis jealously guarded memories of his mother like they were precious gems. He very rarely shared them, as if he feared that giving voice to them would somehow make them vanish. Despite his relative silence on the matter, Aramis always carried his mother's presence with him as she had deeply influenced almost every aspect of his life, from the strongly Spanish features of his face to his profound faith. Porthos treasured any information his brother allowed him to have, if only because it clearly meant so much to Aramis himself.

Aramis had revealed the general framework of his pre-Paris life to Porthos over a bottle of cheap whiskey a long time ago, shortly after Aramis' relationship with Isabelle had fallen apart in spectacular fashion. Porthos knew that his friend's mother had left her home in Spain at a very young age for reasons unknown and had somehow ended up on the wrong side of the French-Spanish border, destitute and desperate. Porthos was also aware that Catalina had often turned to prostitution in order to support herself. It was how Aramis had been conceived.

"She did, yes." Aramis' eyes grew distant as they peered back into his own history. "Our mothers would watch over us when one of them was working. We played together, went to school together, got into trouble together." Aramis smiled softly in his reminiscence. "She was like a sister to me."

"That sounds...nice?" Porthos winced a bit at his word choice. _Nice? Really?_

Aramis tilted his head down, staring at intently at the kitchen floor tiles. "I suppose it was, in it's own way. Honestly, I didn't know any better. Or perhaps I just didn't care. Pauline though...she always wanted something beyond what we had. She was several years older than me and must have been very aware of how low our status was on the social ladder."

"I see. So what happened?"

Aramis shrugged. "Reality started to intrude. Pauline was eventually sucked into our mothers' line of work. It seems as though she managed to escape and make a decent life for herself."

"Well, she sounds like a strong woman. It must have been good to see your old friend again, and to know that she's doing well," Porthos hedged.

Aramis sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Of course it was. I'm thrilled for her. It's just..." He trailed off, making a frustrated noise. "Seeing her was unexpected. It shook out some things that I'd rather not think about."

Porthos reached out and grasped the back of Aramis' neck, silently extending his support. He hated hearing his normally cheerful brother sound so demoralized. "Your father?"

"It just reminded me again of how different things might have been if he hadn't shown up in my life. I couldn't protect her, Porthos, and then I was forced to abandon her. If I'd still been there, maybe she wouldn't have died." The anguish in Aramis' voice painfully raked over Porthos' heart. He didn't have to ask who Aramis was talking about. Porthos had been with his brother when he'd found out about his mother's passing during a visit to Aramis' childhood hometown outside of Perpignan, had stood by his side as he'd silently wept over her pauper's grave.

"Don't do this to yourself, 'Mis. It was out of your control."

Aramis inhaled deeply and squeezed his eyes shut. After a slow count to ten, he opened his eyes again and glanced over at Porthos with a sad attempt at a small smile. "My apologies. I seem to be in a very maudlin mood tonight."

Porthos gave him an incredulous look. "You don't need to apologize for grieving."

Aramis nodded and took another deep breath.

"You alright?"

"I'm fine," Aramis replied automatically.

"Sure you are," Porthos snorted with a roll of his eyes. "I suppose that's what I get for asking."

"You should know better by now," Aramis countered. Porthos was encouraged to see the corners of his brother's eyes crinkle with amusement. "But I will be fine. I promise."

"You know we're here for you. All of us."

"I know. You can be quite annoying about it."

Porthos gave Aramis a friendly slap across the back, purposely making it harder than strictly necessary. He was rewarded with an aggrieved look from Aramis. "You're an ungrateful brat, you know that?"

"You're entitled to your opinion," Aramis said with a careless shrug, "even if it's wrong."

Porthos crossed his arms and frowned. "I don't know why I even bother with you," he grumbled exasperatedly.

Aramis held out his hand with a self-satisfied grin, and Porthos handed him both empty plates. As Aramis placed them in the sink and began putting things away into the fridge, their phones buzzed in tandem.

"It's Athos. He wants to know if we want to come upstairs," Porthos said, checking the text notification on his screen.

"Tell him yes. There's something I wanted to run by all of you."

A few minutes later, Aramis and Porthos climbed upstairs to the much larger flat that was occupied by Athos and D'Artagnan. While the place wasn't particularly extravagant, the way it was furnished and decorated had an understated elegance to it that spoke of money. More specifically, Athos' money. The other three knew that he came from a very wealthy background and had a sizeable trust fund at his disposal. It was something that Athos did not speak of much, but his quiet generosity made it clear that for him, money was nothing more than an afterthought.

They walked in to find Athos and D'Artagnan in the living room, Athos in an overstuffed armchair with a book in hand and D'Artagnan on one of the couches, restlessly flipping through television channels. Athos nodded in greeting as Porthos and Aramis flopped down on an empty sofa.

"Are you hungry?" Athos asked. The questioning look he directed at Porthos silently asked whether everything was okay.

"Nah, thanks. We just ate," Porthos answered, shrugging in response to Athos' nonverbal inquiry. "Or at least, I ate an actual meal. Aramis nibbled."

Athos turned his gaze in Aramis' direction, who shook his head. "I'm good, thanks." He cleared his throat before continuing. "Actually, I was wondering if I could get your thoughts on something. Maybe ask for a favor."

"What is it?" D'Artagnan turned off the TV and turned curious eyes to Aramis.

"I stopped by Sylvie's place this morning. One of the girls that's been living there didn't come home last night."

Athos raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Is that unusual?"

"Perhaps not," Aramis admitted. "But for this particular girl, yes. She's been with Sylvie for a few months now, waiting for word on her application for official refugee status. She has a younger brother, a little seven year old boy, that's still at the shelter."

"Ah. You don't think she would have left her brother behind," Athos said, understanding immediately.

"Absolutely not. Mariam and Rami have stuck together like glue since they arrived. He is the only family she has here in France, and is quite possibly the only family she has left, period."

"So you're saying someone forced her to leave," Porthos commented with a dark look. His own history meant that he knew how easy it was for kids to disappear without a trace, let down by the system that was supposed to care for and protect them.

"Perhaps." Aramis leaned forward, resting his elbows against his knees. "It's not an isolated incident, either. Sylvie mentioned that a few other kids have also failed to come back to her in the past few weeks. Kids that she doesn't think would have left voluntarily. She's worried."

"I see. So, what's the favor?" Athos asked.

Aramis directed wide, earnest eyes at the man that was both his dear friend and team leader. "I told Sylvie that we'd look into it, see if we could figure out what's going on."

"Aramis." Athos' voice was cool, but not without empathy. "You understand this may be an endless, and likely fruitless, task."

"I know. But someone needs to look out for them in case they can't look out for themselves."

Porthos sighed. Aramis had been lucky, as he had managed to find people who cared and were willing to support him as he corrected the course of his life. Porthos suspected that his friend saw pieces of himself in many of the kids that found themselves directionless and adrift as they searched for a place to call home, and wanted to give them the same help that he received so long ago. Furthermore, both Aramis and Porthos were the children of immigrants. He could understand the urge.

"I'd be happy to help you, Aramis. Whatever you need," D'Artagnan said firmly. Aramis nodded his thanks at the young man.

"Yeah, of course," Porthos agreed with an approving look at the Gascon. "Besides, I'm not letting you run around on your own. Who knows what sort of trouble you might run into?"

D'Artagnan gave Porthos a mock offended look. "What am I, chopped liver? I can watch his back too."

The big man scoffed at the idea. "Please. That would be like the blind leading the blind."

Aramis crossed his arms. "You both realize I survived on my own just fine for years before we knew each other."

Porthos gave Aramis an unimpressed look. "Oh, is that right? Remind me again how was it that you ended up in a juvenile correctional home?" D'Artagnan visibly perked at this tantalizing piece of information, but as he opened his mouth, Athos interrupted.

"That's enough," he ordered calmly before the conversation could wander further astray. "Aramis, I'm not certain what we can do in an official capacity. Searching for missing homeless children is not exactly our specialty, so we will have to see what Tréville thinks. That being said," Athos continued, holding up his hand to hold off any arguments, "I think we're in agreement that it's worth looking into. Unofficially, if necessary."

Aramis let out a breath he wasn't aware of holding. "Thank you, mes amis. That's all I can ask for. Hopefully it turns out to be nothing."

Athos hummed thoughtfully. "We all know how likely that is."

Porthos couldn't argue with the sentiment. If Aramis was bothered enough to ask for their help, then something was probably wrong. Aramis' instincts were finely honed and rarely incorrect, much to Porthos' dismay at times. All he could hope was that whatever it was, the matter would be quickly and easily resolved.

 _tbc_

* * *

 _And we're finally moving...I believe this is the last setup chapter, things should start to go more quickly from here on out. Thanks to Thimble and Debbie for letting me know what Sylvie's last name is - apparently I'm not very good at Googling. :) As always, thank you for reading!_


	4. Chapter 4

_Warning: More unpleasant language in the beginning flashback._

* * *

 _"This is your fault, you know."_

 _Aramis turned his head angrily, opening his mouth to say something rude to his father when his mamá grabbed a hold of his chin and forced him still. She shook her head at him almost imperceptibly. Her eyes looked straight into his, imploring him to be silent. Reluctantly, he faced her again, still fuming inwardly._

 _"If you'd raised him better, he wouldn't be such a violent little animal." If Aramis ignored his words, he almost sounded kind._

 _"He's not an animal," Catalina said vehemently. "He's a good boy." Aramis could hear the unshed tears in her voice. His mamá really disliked it when he fought with the other kids. The look of disappointment that slid over her face each time it happened was almost enough to make Aramis stop. She dabbed gently at the cut on his lip which was still oozing blood and Aramis winced at the sting of antiseptic. "Lo siento, mi querido. Does it hurt?" she asked softly._

 _Aramis shook his head even though it did, just a little. "No, it's fine, mamá."_

 _"A good boy?" René crossed his arms as he leaned against the wall, shaking his head sadly. "Don't fool yourself, Catalina. He might have been a good boy if hadn't been raised by a whore. He didn't really have a chance, with you."_

 _Catalina gently pressed her fingers against the bruise that was forming on his cheekbone, ignoring his father's cruel words. It didn't hurt too badly unless she hit one particularly tender spot. She brushed his hair back and placed a light kiss on the forehead. "I will get you some ice for that," she said. She brushed by René without so much as a glance at her lover._

 _René had come and gone frequently over the last two years, a jarring, sour note in the peaceful rhythm of Aramis' life. Even when he was gone, he left behind a wake of destruction that lingered in his absence, reminding them of his looming presence. His mamá had been so pleased when he first showed up. Now, she barely went through the motions of being happy when he was here with them. She always looked so tired, as if she was slowly wilting and withering away. Aramis hated it._

 _When Catalina left the room, René stepped forward unsteadily, his balance shaky with liquor, and knelt in front of the young teenager. Aramis eyed him warily, uncertain of what was coming. His father was an unpredictable man. His moods would change like early spring weather, warm and sunny in one moment and then nasty and stormy in the next._

 _René gently traced the lines of Aramis' face with his forefinger. Aramis tolerated it, if only because he didn't want to startle the man into doing something malicious. Despite the threatening air that often hung about him, he'd yet to lay truly violent hands on Aramis or Catalina. Not that there was any need for him to do so. His words almost always fell like brutal blows, as effective at knocking the wind out of Aramis' lungs as a physical punch to the gut._

 _"You know, I was married once. I had a daughter. She was beautiful and sweet, but her bitch of a mother took her away from me." He placed his hands around Aramis' face, tilting it up to meet his. His father's face was red with drink. "I could take you away from here. Catalina's a good time, but she's not fit to be a mother, not with the kind of work she does. She can barely scrape together a living." René's fingers dug into the sides of Aramis' head. "You're a bastard, but you're still mine. I could make a proper man out you. How would you like that?"_

 _Aramis honestly couldn't think of anything worse. Rather than answering his father's question, he fired back with one of his own. "Why are you so mean to my mother?" It was behavior that completely baffled Aramis. His mamá was a kind, loving woman despite her less-than-fortunate circumstances. It deeply angered him to see someone treat her so callously. He had clashed with kids at school for saying far less, and only his mother's calming presence kept him from trying the same with his father. "You're supposed to love her."_

 _"Love?" His father through back his head and laughed loudly as if Aramis had something very amusing. "Oh kid, your mom's a prostitute. No one loves trash like that."_

 _"I love her," Aramis said fiercely. He yanked himself from René's grip._

 _"That's because you don't know any better. You've been stuck in this shit little town for your entire life." His father stared at him speculatively, and Aramis shivered. "Maybe it's time for you to get out."_

 _Catalina came back into the room, holding a clear plastic back full of ice cubes. She stopped abruptly when she saw the two men in her life staring at each other silently, tension thick between them._

 _"What's going on?" she asked worriedly, tiptoeing her way around René and handing the ice pack to her son._

 _"Oh nothing," René replied. "Just talking."_

* * *

Monday had dawned cold and grey. Aramis frowned at his wet clothing as he scurried inside Sylvie's shelter. The windy drizzle howling through the city had rendered Aramis' umbrella completely useless, and he shook his head as he folded it up. "Don't know why I bothered," he muttered. He glanced back at D'Artagnan, who was covered up in a rather ridiculous-looking but very functional poncho. The young Gascon threw Aramis a self-satisfied look.

"Well, that's what you get for making fun of me," he said, taking in Aramis' soaked pants with a smug grin.

The half-Spaniard raised incredulous eyebrows. "I always make fun of you. And wet or not, I still look better than you, and that's the important thing." He took off his knit hat and pushed back his wildly curling hair with a theatrical flourish.

"We'll see if you still feel that way when you catch pneumonia," D'Artagnan groused under his breath. He quickly plastered a pleasant smile onto his face as Sylvie came out to meet them.

"Hi, nice to meet you," he said, sticking his hand out politely. "I'm Charles D'Artagnan."

"He prefers being called Charles," Aramis cut in. "Or Charlie. He really loves Charlie. It's his favorite."

D'Artagnan glowered at his highly annoying friend. "D'Artagnan, if you please. Don't listen to Aramis."

"Oh, I rarely do," Sylvie said with a brief, distracted smile as she shook the Gascon's proffered hand. "Thank you so much for coming out, and thank you again for agreeing to help. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it."

Tréville had not been thrilled by Aramis' request to open an investigation. Aramis greatly respected his mentor, but he was not going to take "no" for an answer.

"You know as well as I do that missing persons cases are difficult if not resolved in the first twenty-four hours," Tréville had pointed out to Aramis. "It becomes infinitely more difficult when the missing persons in question have no official status. They're essentially ghosts in the system."

"Yes, I know that," Aramis had acknowledged, his arms tightly crossed.

"Furthermore, these are not the sorts of cases we take," Tréville had said, shaking his head.

"You're right. Apparently, we limit ourselves to aiding and protecting only the wealthy and powerful," Aramis had countered aggressively. Tréville gave his sniper a cautionary look but Aramis had simply stared back, resolutely standing his ground.

To no one's surprise, Tréville had ultimately given in to Aramis and allowed two weeks with full resources to find something they could hand over law enforcement. Aramis had taken it upon himself to interview the other occupants at the shelter in an official capacity, and D'Artagnan jumped at the chance to follow Aramis. He'd been intrigued by the unexpected bits and pieces of the older man's past that had been revealed in the past few days. They painted a picture of Aramis than was very different from the one he'd already created in his mind. The young Gascon was hoping that he'd find out more about who Aramis had been and where he'd come from. The sniper had seemed surprised but pleased when D'Artagnan had volunteered to help.

"Sylvie, I'm going to need to talk to the kids that are here. Please try to make it clear, especially to the older ones, that this is voluntary, and that any information would remain strictly confidential," Aramis requested. "I'd like to talk to Didier first, see if Mariam mentioned anything to him."

"He's actually out at the moment," Sylvie said, "but I'll be sure to send him to you as soon as he comes in."

In the meantime, she brought forth the other kids that were currently at the shelter. D'Artagnan was a bit disappointed that no one seemed to know anything, but Aramis did not seem perturbed, patiently asking each child if anyone had approached them, if they had seen any strangers hanging around the shelter, if they had noticed anything out of the ordinary. It was clear that many of the occupants that came to speak with them only did so grudgingly, fearful that any sign of trouble would endanger their chances of legitimate recognition by the French government. They eyed D'Artagnan distrustfully, glancing at him repeatedly as they provided sullen, one-word answers to Aramis' calm questioning.

After the fourth unproductive interview, Aramis turned to the Gascon. "D'Artagnan?"

"Yes?"

"Please don't take this the wrong way, but I think it might be better if you waited outside."

"Am I doing something wrong?"

"No, not at all," Aramis replied quickly. "But I think your presence is making them nervous. They were never going to like this, but at least I'm familiar to them. You're not.

"Oh." D'Artagnan paused. He didn't want to leave, but he didn't want to get in the way either. Questioning people was not exactly his line of expertise. "I guess I'll just...hang about then."

"I have a feeling this won't take long," Aramis said apologetically.

D'Artagnan nodded and left the room, feeling a bit like an unnecessary appendage. As he loitered in the hallway, a beautiful young blonde woman approached him. She introduced herself with a friendly smile. "Are you new here? I don't think I've seen you before. I'm Pauline."

"Pauline?" The name clicked in D'Artagnan's quicksilver mind. "You wouldn't happen to be Aramis' friend, would you?"

Pauline's eyes widened. "Do you know Aramis?"

The Gascon nodded. "I'm D'Artagnan, I'm a friend of his."

"Well it's wonderful to meet you!" Pauline said, her smile brightening. "Are you going to start working here as well?"

"Ah, no. We're actually here on business, I suppose you could say."

"Oh. Is something wrong?"

"Well, that's what we're trying to figure out."

Pauline's delighted smile slipped off her face and she looked worried, chewing nervously on her lip. "I certainly hope everything is okay. Is Aramis here with you?"

"He is, just in that room over there," D'Artagnan said, pointing to where his friend was still working.

"I see." She paused for a moment, as if considering something. "Well, I think I'm going to go say hello. It was very nice to meet you, D'Artagnan."

"No, I don't - " D'Artagnan tried to warn her not to disturb Aramis but stopped as she quickly walked away, eager to see her old friend. "I can see why they got along so well," he muttered. "They've got that selective hearing thing down."

* * *

"Aramis! I suppose I'll have to get used to seeing you often."

The half-Spaniard looked up at sound of his name, eyebrows raised as he saw Pauline walk into the room. The youth in front of him slouched down in his chair, clearly wanting to leave. Aramis sighed. It didn't seem like Gabriel had much to share anyway. "You can go," Aramis allowed. "And thanks for your time," he muttered as the boy shot away.

"Pauline. How are you? I'm glad to see that you made it back safely the other night." Tension that he didn't know he was carrying eased a bit when he saw his old friend walking towards him with her hands outstretched, whole and unharmed. Pauline was impeccably styled in dark jeans and a camel trench coat, and as she came closer Aramis caught a subtle hint of expensive perfume. She looked out of place in the shabby surroundings of the shelter. She was the Pauline he remembered, and yet so different. It was a bit jarring.

"Yes, of course I did. I told you that everything was fine."

"Is that really true?" Aramis stepped in closer, lowering his voice. "Look Pauline, I don't mean to pry, but if someone is bothering you, please tell me. I can help." Aramis couldn't believe that the man they'd encountered the previous night, the one with such cold, dark eyes, could be anything but a danger to his old friend. It yet another thing that he had to worry about.

The smile slid off Pauline's face and an exasperated look replaced it. There was something else under it that Aramis couldn't quite identify. It scraped unpleasantly at his instincts. "I don't understand why you're being so insistent, but you need to stop. No one is bothering me _._ "

Aramis sighed, his hands on his hips. "I'm just concerned, that's all."

"Don't be. You lost the right to be concerned about me a long time ago, Aramis," Pauline snapped.

Outwardly, he didn't react, but internally, he recoiled. It was true, wasn't it? He'd left them all behind so long ago. "Of course," he said, backing away a step. "Please accept my sincerest apologies."

A look of remorse quickly chased away Pauline's irritation. "No, I'm the one that should apologize. I don't know what's gotten into me." She lightly laid a hand on his arm. "I hope you'll forgive me. I'm just a bit flustered. St. Pierre and I had a little argument this morning."

Aramis nodded at her, accepting her explanation. "Nothing serious, I hope."

"No, not at all," she said with a small smile and shrug. "Just one of those things."

As much as he wanted to push the matter, Aramis kept himself in check. He was almost certain that Pauline was lying to him about something. It was in the way she wouldn't meet his gaze for more than a few seconds, and the way her smiles didn't quite reach her eyes.

Pauline took a deep breath. "I met your friend outside. He said you think there's something wrong?"

"Unfortunately, yes. Actually, while you're here, might I take a minute of your time?" Aramis' focus sharpened as he returned to the business at hand.

"Of course. What's this all about?" Curiosity shined in Pauline's guileless blue eyes.

"Have you noticed anything off lately? Have any of the children spoken to you about being approached, or about being frightened?"

"No, I don't think so? Why?"

"You haven't noticed the several children that lived at the shelter have gone missing?" Aramis asked in surprise.

"Well, I didn't think anything of it. I mean, Paris isn't a final destination for a lot of these kids." When Aramis remained silent, Pauline continued. "You think it's something else?"

Aramis shrugged. "Well, I hope not. My team has taken Sylvie on as a client."

"Do you...do you think that's a good idea?" Pauline asked hesitantly.

"I suppose it depends on what we find," Aramis replied.

"What if there's nothing to find? Isn't that the most likely outcome?" Pauline asked skeptically. "An investigation seems terribly serious, and I'm worried that the children are going to be frightened by having the authorities around. A lot of them haven't had the best experience with law enforcement."

"I'm not the police, and these kids have absolutely nothing to be scared of. They've done nothing wrong, as far as we know." Aramis turned away from Pauline and began pacing the room. "I hope we find absolutely nothing. But if it does turn out that there is someone out there preying on these kids, I'm going to find them, and they are going to have to deal with me." There was a dark, feral look in his eye that made Pauline shiver. "I'm not letting this go until I know."

"I see." Pauline took a deep breath but before she could continue, their conversation was interrupted by another boy. He hesitated in the doorway, unsure of whether to come in.

"Didier, there you are. Thank you for meeting with me." Aramis gestured for the gangly dark-skinned teenager to come in. Didier gingerly sat down on the edge of the chair opposite the one that Aramis took, his face a blank mask but his eyes bouncing nervously between Aramis and Pauline.

"I didn't do anything," Didier opened pre-emptively.

"I'm not saying that you did," Aramis reassured. "We just want your help, if you can give it. Do you know what this is about?"

"Maybe," the boy said reluctantly.

"I promise you're not in trouble. We haven't seen some of your friends in a while and we want to make sure they're safe."

Didier looked down at his hands, unable to hold Aramis' gaze and mumbled something unintelligible.

"Anything would help, Didier. Whatever you say will stay between us." Aramis felt Pauline put a supportive hand on his shoulder and he absently reached up to pat it. "Rami said that Mariam told him to stay with you the last time she was here. Did she say anything to you about it?"

The boy looked up, his face blank as he glanced at both adults. "Uh...no. She didn't."

"Are you sure? You didn't speak to her at all? Even if it doesn't seem important, you can tell me."

"No. She just asked me to watch Rami and left."

Aramis wasn't surprised that Mariam would do so. Didier was an elder statesmen of sorts, helping Sylvie watch over some of the younger children that found their way to the shelter. He was a thoughtful, level-headed boy that cared for others deeply and held himself to a level of personal responsibility that Aramis found impressive. It made Didier's obvious dishonesty all the more disappointing. Apparently everyone was planning on lying to him today.

"Didier, you're not in trouble," Aramis reiterated gently. "All you can do is help right now, alright? Mariam might need your help."

"I don't know anything." Didier shook his head, his eyes shuttering and his expression closing off. "I'm sorry."

"You don't remember anything unusual? Anything out of the ordinary? It doesn't matter how small." Aramis tried to keep his tone light, tried not to push too much. He didn't think he was very successful as he watched Didier fold into himself.

"No," the boy said. His mouth set into a grim, stubborn line.

Aramis sat back with a sigh. "Didi, we've known each other for a while now, right?" The teenager nodded. "I know that the children here look up to you, and that Sylvie depends on you. I trust you," Aramis said softly. "I hope you trust me too."

Didier nodded but didn't say anything else. The man and the boy sat in silence that stretched on for several minutes. Pauline eventually spoke up, breaking the impasse.

"Perhaps we should give Didier some time to think about your questions," she advised. "Maybe it will help jog his memory."

Aramis suppressed another sigh. "Yes, of course. Thank you for speaking with me. And please know that you can talk to me at any time, okay?"

With a quick jerk of the head the boy stood up and raced out of the room before Aramis could change his mind and call him back. "That went well," Aramis murmured. "He's definitely hiding something." Aramis stood up and stretched. "It was lovely to see you, but D'Artagnan and I should probably get going." He gave Pauline a quick hug and a light kiss on the cheek. "We should get together soon. Perhaps along with St. Pierre?"

"Yes, of course. I'd like that," Pauline said enthusiastically. "Maybe we could have you over? Oh Aramis, just wait until you see the lovely flat that we live in. It's absolutely enormous, and has the most incredible view of the city!"

Aramis' gaze softened. Underneath the refined lady that Pauline had apparently become, he could still see the poor, kind girl that would buy him sugared crêpes and other luxurious little treats whenever she had collected a small bit of spending money. Looking at the bashful, excited smile brightly lighting up her face, Aramis felt nothing but pride in his friend, pride that she had gotten out and had found the life that she wanted and deserved.

As Aramis walked back out, he picked up D'Artagnan, who had been roped into handing over tools while Sylvie fixed a leaky sink. With a promise that he'd return soon, the two men stepped back out into the rain, which had calmed into a light drizzle over the past couple of hours.

"Remember that thing you asked me to look in to?" D'Artagnan asked as they walked along.

"Yes. Did anything come up?"

"Yeah. The car is registered to someone named Phillipe Achille."

"Hmm." Aramis frowned. The name sounded so familiar... "Oh. Well that's not good."

"What's not good?"

"Phillipe Achille. If I'm recalling correctly, he's a gang boss that runs the northern part of the city. His name always comes up in connection with organized crimes, but no one's ever been able to make anything stick. Rumor is that he has some powerful benefactors that protect his operations," Aramis said. On a more personal note, he remembered that name being spoken with equal parts fear and admiration when he'd still been on the streets. Achille had often been referred to as the Marquis, for reasons that escaped Aramis entirely. "I hope you were discreet about this."

A affronted expression crossed D'Artagnan's face. "And I hope you don't miss any of your targets at the firing range."

Aramis raised his hands in acknowledgement. "Point taken."

"So is that who you saw with your friend?"

"No, it couldn't have been. Achille would be an old man now. The person I saw was young. Perhaps a little bit older than me."

"I don't know if I'd consider that young," D'Artagnan snickered.

Aramis casually slapped the Gascon upside the head without breaking stride. "You should learn to respect your betters," he said severely.

D'Artagnan gave Aramis a miffed pout. "Well, if I see any, I certainly will." He skipped on ahead before the half-Spaniard could retaliate.

Aramis watched him go with a shake of his head. His revenge would unfortunately have to wait. A small kernel of dread settled into his stomach. If Pauline was involved with someone of Achille's ilk, then she was in worse trouble than he suspected. He needed to find out who that man was.

* * *

Porthos and Athos stood side by side, their stances identical with hands clasped in front of them, as they waited patiently for Porthos' contact to meet them. They were currently the only occupants in what could generously be called a sitting room, sparsely furnished with a sagging sofa and one small, round table. Flimsy, frayed curtains hung from the windows, filtering out the small amount of natural light and giving the room an odd orange glow. To anyone else, they would have appeared calm and cool over the past twenty minutes. Athos, however, could feel the tension rolling off of his large friend in near suffocating waves. Porthos had offered to reach out some 'old friends', as he'd put it, to see if he could they could provide any information. Aramis had given him a dubious look, which Athos had ignored at the time. Now, he was reconsidering.

"I thought you said these people were friends of yours?"

"They are."

Athos considered that for a moment. "And are these friends going to be happy to see you?"

"I guess that depends on how she feels about the last time we met," Porthos muttered.

Athos turned his head to give Porthos a flat stare, but before he could question Porthos further, the door opened and a petite blonde woman sashayed in from the alley way. She gave the two men a once over as she walked up to them.

"Well, well, well. Porthos, it's been a while. And I see you've brought a friend this time." She looked Athos up and down as she circled the two men the way a cat circled a couple of tasty-looking mice. "I must admit that he's not the sort I usually go for, but if that's what you want..."

Athos could practically feel the heat from the flames consuming Porthos' cheeks at the woman's comment. "It's not...I'm not here for that, Flea."

 _Flea? That's unusual,_ Athos thought. _I'm going to assume their last meeting was not a business call._

"Oh really?" The woman ran a teasing finger over Porthos' broad chest. "But we had such fun last time." There was a bite to her words that made Athos suspect whatever had happened in the past had not ended well.

"Flea," Porthos sounded pained. "I'm sorry, okay?"

"That would be easier to believe if you hadn't run off so quickly. And to think I'd finally managed to forget about you the way you forgot about me."

"I could never forget about you." the big man said quietly.

Flea snorted. "Could have fooled me." She coolly crossed her arms and turned her attention to Athos. "Who's your friend, then?"

"Ah, this is - "

"Olivier. Pleased to meet you." Athos took the hand that Flea held out and pressed his lips to her knuckles.

"The pleasure's all mine, Olivier," Flea purred. "You could learn some manners from your friend," she continued, turning her stare back at Porthos. "Then again, you were always the type to just do what you wanted, and damn everyone else."

Beside him, Athos heard Porthos take a deep breath. "Where is Charon? I asked to see him too."

"You did. You get just me." There was a lull in the conversation as Porthos and Flea eyed each other. A distinct tension simmered between the two, and it was obvious to Athos that not all of it stemmed from distrust. He cleared his throat before it could drag on for too long.

"We're looking for some information. We'd be grateful for any aid you could provide us."

"I'm sure," Flea said, her voice flat and unreadable.

"We're investigating a potential missing persons case, trying to figure out whether a couple kids that have gone missing from a shelter were taken or if they just went elsewhere," Porthos explained gruffly. "We just want to know whether anyone has seen them recently. I figured if anyone had, it would be you. Or Charon."

Flea's eyebrow arched higher upon hearing the reason. "Well now, aren't you just full of surprises?"

"If you've heard anything, even if it's that the children have wandered off on their own accord, we'd greatly appreciate it," Athos added.

"You'll greatly appreciate it and you'll also pay for it. Information isn't for free."

Athos sighed internally. "Of course. We will pay whatever the information is worth." The firm specifically set aside funds for transactions such as these, if money was what their informants desired. Which it usually was.

"You'll pay what we ask for, and that's that," Flea returned firmly. She considered the two of them carefully and then broke into a genuine smile. "That's a really nice thing you're doing."

Athos nodded politely. He and Porthos shared with Flea the missing children's names, their physical attributes and any other identifiers Aramis had provided. "I'll tell Charon. We'll contact you when we know something."

"Thank you, Flea. And...I'm sorry."

Flea reached up and caressed the side of Porthos' face. "But not sorry enough to stay with me." It wasn't a question.

"No." Porthos looked away. "But I am sorry that you didn't come with me."

Flea sighed. "I'll send for you." she said. She turned and left without another word, leaving the two teammates alone.

"I take it this means we're free to go?" Athos asked.

"Yeah, we can go." The big man sounded subdued.

As they walked back out into the street, Athos cast a glance at his friend. "Would you care to explain?"

Porthos shrugged. "I used to run with Charon and his crew, back before I met Tréville."

"You were in a gang?"

"It wasn't a gang," Porthos replied defensively. "Not the way you're thinking. We were just a group of people, helping each other survive."

"And I'm sure you helped each other using completely legal and lawful means," Athos said wryly. There was no judgement in Athos' voice. Both Porthos and Aramis came from disadvantaged backgrounds, and they were two of the finest men he knew.

Porthos grinned wickedly. "Well, it was only illegal if people caught you doing it. Otherwise, it was just...involuntary charity."

"I'm pretty sure that's not how it works," Athos said lightly.

The big man shrugged. "Eh. It was petty thievery at worst. We never set out to hurt anyone. Besides, you have to admit some of my 'skills' have come in handy for some of our cases."

Athos smiled. "I won't deny that." Porthos had extremely delicate fingers for a man so large. They were excellent at sneaking into pockets and picking locks. "And Flea?"

"Flea was with us. She was someone special in my life."

"I see. And when did you see her last?"

"A few years ago." Porthos' face flushed with whatever memory was flashing through his mind. "I looked her up while Aramis was recovering. Things were hard, you know?"

"I do." The stress fractures from that time had nearly cracked their foundations. "What happened?"

"We hooked up for a bit. I've known her for a long time, and I just needed to be with someone that knew me, that didn't remind me of what was going on. Let me tell you, though," Porthos said, a grin crossing his face. "She wasn't exactly thrilled to see me at first."

"Why not?"

"Ah, I guess you could say we were sweet on each other when I still ran with Charon. She, ah, didn't like that that I ended up leaving for Tréville."

"I'm sure you didn't have much choice in the matter," Athos reassured him.

"Nah, of course I did," Porthos disagreed. "It's not hard to escape from foster care, if you put your mind to it." Porthos knew this for a fact since he'd done so himself several times, especially in the years just following his mum's death. "But I decided that Tréville was my way out. My opportunity to find something better."

"Ah, I see." That explained a lot of the tension. "But she clearly got over it."

"She did. And then I went and left her again." There was a pause in the conversation as Porthos mulled over his decisions. "I wanted her to come with me, but she wouldn't leave. Said she couldn't leave her people behind."

"So what you're telling me is that it's a miracle we walked out of there alive."

"Pretty much, yeah."

Athos snorted. "So what is it that you think Charon knows?"

"He keeps a network of eyes around the city. If there's something going on underground, he probably has his ear to it."

"Do you think they'll be able to help?"

"I guess we'll find out. Charon and I...we didn't part on the best terms. He's not a bad sort, but he lives by a code."

"A code that you broke?"

"Yeah, something like that. He let me go because we were brothers, but he doesn't like it when people cross him."

Athos frowned. "So maybe the question is whether they'll actually be willing to help." Flea had seemed open to it, but it sounded like Charon might not be quite so amenable.

"I guess we'll find out."

* * *

 _Thanks for reading!_


	5. Chapter 5

_Aramis dug his heels in, trying to resist his father's pull. René gripped his arm so tightly that he was certain he would have little finger-shaped bruises all over his bicep the next day. Despite the fact that Aramis was starting to sprout, he was no match for his father's full-grown strength._

 _"Why do we have to go already? We just got here a few days ago!"_

 _"Because I said so, you little shit. Stop making such a scene," René hissed, his face thrust close. Aramis winced away from the sour puff of stale alcohol that accompanied his father's words. It mixed sickeningly with the lingering scent of old cigarettes that clung to the dirty carpet and bedding in the room. Even though he'd spent his childhood in rooms similar to this one, they had never seemed so depressing or dirty. His mamá's presence had always made things seem warmer and brighter, like home. Aramis' mind immediately flinched away from the thought of Catalina, unable to bear the sting of rejection._

 _His father gave him a little shake. "Why do you have to make this so difficult?" There was a plaintive note to his voice that grated on Aramis' nerves. René picked up the duffel bag that he'd packed off the motel bed and shoved it into Aramis' hands. "This is what it looks like when you actually work for a living," he said, releasing his son's arm and giving him a rough push. "Get moving. I need to get to Nimes by tomorrow morning."_

 _A dark thundercloud settled on Aramis' face as he allowed himself to be pressed along. There was no point in objecting, as he had already found out that he'd be dragged along regardless. He slowly made his way to the car, resigning himself to spending long hours trapped inside a small, oppressive space with no company other than his father. Aramis had never felt lonely his entire life, but now, even with René sitting less than a foot away from him, he found himself to be completely, profoundly, inescapably alone._

 _Staring out the window into the fading daylight, Aramis watched as night slowly descended upon the countryside. The sky was a lovely smear of colors, starting from a rosy glow near the horizon all the way up to a deep, fathomless blue. As the darkness became complete, cutting Aramis off from the rest of the world, he was left to meander through his thoughts. His own mind had become a minefield, and he proceeded warily._

 _Despite spending the last six months being dragged around by his father, Aramis still couldn't figure out why René had bothered to rip him away from everything he'd ever known. It was quite obvious that his father found him to be a burden. Every morning, René would frown at Aramis through the blurry haze of a hangover while he stumbled towards the bathroom, as if dismayed that his son was still there. Life with René was tedious; they traveled from town to town so quickly that Aramis never had a chance to settle, never had a chance to get to know anyone. Despite the fact that he'd seen more of France in the past half-year than he had in the first thirteen years of his life, his world had shrunk to into a tiny little space, and he was squeezed into it with a man he despised._

 _René himself would often disappear in the evenings and then come back very late, reeking of liquor and cheap perfume. The smell of if cut through Aramis. For all the disdain he held for working girls, his father seemed to require their services quite often. If his mamá knew, Aramis thought that it might break her heart. Or perhaps not._

 _She had let him go so easily. "Te amo, mi tesoro," she had whispered in his ear. "Te amo. I wish I could have given you more, my sweet Aramis." At first, Catalina had clutched at him so tightly that he couldn't breathe, but then she had released him. When his father had come to take him away, she hadn't resisted._

 _Aramis had argued, cried, had clung to her hand like a small child. But his mamá had pushed him away. Told him to go, as if he didn't mean anything to her. He hadn't understood why then. He still didn't understand now._

 _He thrust the memories away. It was too easy to get wrapped up in them, too easy to spiral down into a whirlpool of hurt and doubt. So instead he shut down his mind and just floated in a blank, empty gap._

 _Aramis was startled out of his reverie when a hand shoved against the side of his head. The force of it painfully bounced Aramis' face against the cool, hard glass of the car window._

 _"Hey! Are you listening to me?" His father glared at him._

 _"What?" Aramis kept his hands clasped tightly in his lap. He wasn't going to rub at the aching spot on his forehead. He refused to give his father the satisfaction._

 _"What the hell is wrong with you? Are you dumb or just trying to piss me off?" René made a disgusted noise. "Christ, I should have just left you to rot with that whore."_

 _Whatever else it was that René had wanted to say was clearly not very important, as he turned away from Aramis without another word, muttering unintelligibly under his breath. Aramis didn't bother responding. It was probably the first and last time he agreed with his miserable father._

* * *

Over the next couple days, D'Artagnan went out with Aramis as he roamed the streets of Paris, exploring areas of the city he would have never thought to visit on his own. As they walked side by side, Aramis pointed out places that were perfectly safe, day and night, despite their somewhat unsavory appearance, places that should be avoided, and what behaviors to look out for. As a relatively recent transplant to Paris, D'Artagnan soaked up his partner's advice like a thirsty sponge.

"Is this where you grew up? Is that how you know all this stuff?" he asked, feeling bold about prying into the other man's past.

"No. When my travels finally landed me in Paris, I actually spent most of my time on the outskirts. Things were bit, shall we say, _freer_ in the outlying districts than they were in the city." Aramis grinned at him. "The 'stuff' I'm telling you about is just standard tourist information. You'd have figured it out on your own eventually, if you ever cared to remove your nose from your computer screen."

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes. "I get out," he muttered. He stumbled a bit when Aramis landed a hearty slap on his back.

"I'll bet you do now, with Constance to lure you away," Aramis agreed.

It was hard to keep the goofy grin off of his face, but at this point everyone accepted that it was a reflexive response D'Artagnan had to hearing the pretty doctor's name.

Aramis had tried to contact some people he had known in his past, but the only answer he had gotten was a ringing silence. Either they didn't want to talk to him, or were afraid to. Aramis had seemed disturbed by it, but said nothing on the matter. The two men continued to canvass the neighborhood around the shelter with no success. It was as if Mariam had simply disappeared into thin air, like a tiny wisp of smoke that had melted into the atmosphere without anything but the faintest, ephemeral scent to mark her passing. D'Artagnan was beginning to get the impression that the saying "where there is smoke, there's fire" was highly applicable in this case; it seemed impossible that no one had seen or heard of her - or the other missing kids - at all. Considering the amount of ground the two men had covered in the past few days, it seemed more and more likely that the complete erasure of these kids was very deliberate.

Aramis, for his part, was ever patient, asking the same questions over and over, nodding with gratitude no matter what answer he received in response. Despite his unpeturbed outward appearance, the young Gascon could tell that Aramis was slowly sliding into a disheartened mood. They both understood that the slow passage of time was stealing away their chances of a happy ending.

When they returned to their office after a long, unproductive day, there was a visitor waiting for them in the bullpen, sitting uncomfortably between Athos and Porthos. Aramis visibly brightened up when he saw who it was.

"Didi? What are you doing here?" D'Artagnan recognized one of the boys from Sylvie's shelter. Aramis grabbed a rolling chair and wheeled it in front of Didier, sitting himself down in it and giving the teenager a warm smile.

"Monsieur Aramis," Didier mumbled. "I'm sorry to bother you at this late hour."

"No no, it's no bother at all. Can I help you with something? Did Sylvie send you?"

The teenager shook his head. "No, she didn't, Monsieur. I..." Didier paused, looking nervously at around the room. "I came to speak to you. You said that if I knew anything, I should tell you."

"Of course. You did the right thing. These are my friends, Athos, Porthos and D'Artagnan." Each man nodded to the boy. "We would all like to hear what you have to say."

"It's probably nothing, and I know she's your friend, Monsieur Aramis, so I didn't want to say anything but I want to help -"

"Who are you talking about?" Aramis interrupted Didier's rambling before he could really pick up speed.

"The blonde lady. Mademoiselle Pauline."

A cloud passed over Aramis' face, and D'Artagnan saw Athos and Porthos give each other a loaded glance. "What about her?" Aramis asked, a slight guarded edge to his voice.

"You asked if Mariam had said anything. Before she left Rami with me, I mean." D'Artagnan could already see Didier shrinking back into his seat, regretting his decision to come forward.

"You told me that she hadn't."

"I - I know, and I'm sorry, I didn't...I didn't mean to lie, but I didn't want to get into trouble," Didier stammered. He jumped but then settled when Porthos gave his shoulder a reassuring pat.

Aramis took a deep breath. "It's fine, Didier. I understand. Tell us what Mariam told you, okay? You're not in trouble, I promise."

The boy nodded. "Well, she said that Mademoiselle Pauline had found a family to take care of them, of her and Rami." There was a clear yearning in Didier's voice. Lucky children found sponsors, most did not. "Mariam said that the family wanted to meet, but just her. She couldn't bring Rami."

Aramis frowned, a crease appearing between his eyebrows. "Why not?"

Didier shrugged. "I don't know. That's what Mariam said. So she asked me to watch Rami for her while she was gone, since she knows that he likes me. That's the last time I saw her."

"I see." Aramis bent forward in his seat, elbows against his knees and head hanging down. His hair hung over his forehead, obscuring his face.

"I'm sorry," Didier repeated. He looked mildly terrified that he had done the wrong thing and had offended Aramis.

"There's no need to apologize. You did the right thing to share this with us," Athos said kindly, stepping into the silence when it became clear that Aramis was not going to respond. "Do you know when Pauline started working at the shelter?"

"Maybe a few months ago? I don't remember exactly."

"Do you know if she spoke to any of the other children that have not returned?"

Didier looked down at his hands. "I don't know. Maybe? I'm not sure."

Silence reigned as the four men digested the information. It was broken when Didier quietly spoke up again. "I didn't want to say anything. Mademoiselle Pauline has been very nice to me. I just wanted to help."

Aramis sighed and lifted his head, giving the teenager a smile that failed to reach his eyes. It was obvious from Didier's worried face that he was very disturbed by the idea that someone might be making his friends disappear. Aramis couldn't deny the boy's courage in coming forward, even if Didier brought information that he was not thrilled to hear.

"Thank you, Didi. I appreciate you coming all the way here. Is that all? Do you have anything else to add?"

The teenager shook his head silently.

"Do you need someone to bring you back to Sylvie's?" Aramis asked him gently.

"No, I'll be okay," the boy demurred. "Thanks."

After Didier left, three pairs of eyes turned to Aramis. He had slumped back in his chair with his eyes closed and fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as if staving off a headache. "Well?" Porthos asked. "Aramis?"

"What?" the sniper responded flatly.

Porthos frowned at his friend even though he couldn't see it. "What do you think? Is it possible that Pauline could be involved?"

"No, it's not possible," Aramis immediately snapped. He straightened up and glared at Porthos, fire flashing in his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous."

"We're not being ridiculous. We're asking questions that need to be asked," Athos said calmly. The older man's cool, unflappable nature never failed to amaze D'Artagnan.

"If these children are being taken for who knows what reason, there is no way that Pauline could be involved in something so heinous," Aramis insisted heatedly. He shot out of his chair and began pacing the room, stalking back and forth like a caged jaguar. "There's no way."

"Are you saying that because you want it to be true, or because you know it's true?" Athos pressed.

Aramis turned on his team leader. "The Pauline I remember was a sweet, loving girl. She knows exactly how hard it is to grow up poor, how hard it is to have nothing. She would _never_ do this." His restless hands cut furiously through the air.

"You said yourself that it's been a long time since you've seen her, Aramis," Porthos said softly. "People change."

"They don't change that much. Are you really going to question me over what is at best circumstantial evidence? There is absolutely nothing in Didier's testimony to suggest that the conversation she had with Mariam was even remotely related to her disappearance."

D'Artagnan disagreed, and apparently, so did Porthos. "You don't find it suspicious that Mariam went to meet someone that Pauline told her to meet, and then never returned?"

Aramis angrily planted his hands on his hips. "No, I'd say she was just doing her job. She's specifically at Sylvie's shelter to help these kids find homes, for God's sake." Frustration leached into his words.

"Okay, okay," Porthos said, his hands raised placatingly. "Calm down, Aramis."

"I am calm!" Aramis all but shouted. "Do _not_ patronize me, Porthos."

The big man's face darkened. "I'm not patronizing you. But you need to pull yourself together and think about this objectively."

"I..." Aramis sighed, and D'Artagnan could practically hear the some of the hostility being released from Aramis' body. "I know. But you also have to admit that the connection is weak at best. There's no proof."

"Regardless, it's the only lead we have so far. We need to talk to her," Athos said firmly.

"I already did."

"She was at the shelter the first day we went to talk to the kids, right after we took on the case," D'Artagnan recalled.

"And now I know why Didier stonewalled me that day," Aramis said, combing his fingers agitatedly through his long hair.

"What did Pauline have to say?" Porthos asked.

"Absolutely nothing," Aramis replied with a helpless gesture. He began pacing again. "I didn't exactly push very hard. Didn't ask the right questions."

"One of us can do this," Athos offered. "It doesn't have to be you."

"Of course it has to be me," Aramis said sharply.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," Porthos disagreed.

Aramis' eyes narrowed dangerously, anger suffusing his face once more. "Are you questioning my ability to do my job?"

The big man crossed his arms in front of him, clearly fighting to keep his own temper in check. "You know I'm not," he responded evenly. "But keep acting like this and I might."

At the completely fair reprimand, Aramis visibly deflated. He perched himself on the edge of a desk next to Athos, and the team leader automatically wrapped his arm around his brother's shoulders and gave him a quick embrace. "Forgive me, mes amis. I don't know why I'm taking this out on you."

"Aramis, do you think that this could have anything to do with that, uh, thing you asked me to look into?" D'Artagnan ventured.

"So much for being discreet," Aramis said, glaring at the young Gascon.

D'Artagnan shrugged ruefully. "Sorry. I was just thinking out loud."

"What thing?" Porthos asked.

"Pauline was approached by a man the first night I met her," Aramis explained reluctantly. "She claimed that they were old friends and had a meeting planned, but there was something...off about him. I asked D'Artagnan to look up a license plate for me."

"And?" Athos urged.

"They were picked up by a vehicle that belongs to Phillipe Achille."

Porthos whistled. "That's no joke. We chased that guy for years with no luck," he said, referring to his time in the police force. "That man is scum. You think he might be connected to the missing kids somehow?"

Aramis shrugged, his arms crossed tightly. "If he is, I don't have a clear picture of how."

Athos frowned. "And you didn't think this might be an important thing to share?"

The half-Spaniard crossed his arms. "There's no evidence that it had anything to do with the missing kids."

Athos didn't disagree, but he still shook his head. "Nevertheless, we really need to talk to Pauline. As quickly as possible."

"I know. I will."

"Good. Let us know if you change your mind and want one of us to do it," Athos said.

"I won't," Aramis said firmly. "This is my responsibility."

It wasn't really, but the other three men understood. They hoped for their friend's sake that his faith in Pauline would turn out to be deserved.

* * *

A long walk was usually sufficient to soothe Aramis' nerves, but he was finding his agitation to be very stubborn. Pauline had always been the obedient one when they were growing up, and in the true spirit of an older sister, she had always been the one to pull him out of trouble and save him from a scolding and a sore bottom. He could almost hear his mother's exasperated voice, asking why he couldn't behave himself like his hermana. The idea that she'd deliberately break the rules, let alone be involved in anything criminal, was unthinkable. It niggled at him, though, and that alone was enough to irritate him.

His three brothers had headed over to The Garrison to ease their tension with a drink and some easy camaraderie, but Aramis had begged off, claiming to be too tired to be good company. He had ducked away from Porthos' concerned frown, feeling guilty about his refusal and promising to join them the next time. He had headed back home, wondering if he should try to get some more work done. D'Artagnan had managed to retrieve hours and hours of CCTV footage from a half-mile radius around the shelter - Aramis didn't ask how he obtained it so quickly - and most of it still needed to be examined. As he approached his front door, Aramis felt a sudden prickle at the back of his mind. It was a feeling that he long ago learned not to ignore. He paused for a second before inserting the key into the lock, quieting his breath and listening for any subtle sounds that might tell him what was off. There was nothing but the hush of an empty hallway.

Slowly opening the front door, Aramis quietly crept inside, placing each foot carefully so as not to hit any of the creaky floorboards. As he advanced further into his dark flat, his own home suddenly felt alien and unfamiliar, as if he was the one breaking into someone else's place. Even though his breath stayed steady and calm, Aramis could feel his heart rate speed up. The silence rang in his ears, too loud and too obvious.

"Welcome home, Aramis."

The low, gravelly voice rumbled from out of the shadows as Aramis approached his living room and his eyes widened almost imperceptibly. He turned on one of his lamps to find a stranger sitting on his couch. The man's posture was relaxed and his hands idly toyed with a folded butterfly switchblade. His inky black eyes stared dispassionately at Aramis. It was the same man that had confronted Pauline in the street. As it had then, the former soldier could feel his hackles rising.

"Who are you? What do you want?" He didn't bother asking how the man had gotten into his home or how he knew Aramis' name. He unconsciously shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet, ready to burst into movement at a moment's notice.

The man flipped open the knife and then closed it again, repeating the motion over and over. It was hypnotic, in its own way. "This is the only warning you get. You can consider yourself lucky to get one at all." The stranger's hands paused, leaving the blade exposed. "Stay out of this, Aramis. Leave it alone."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Aramis replied, playing dumb.

"Yes, you do," the man replied calmly. He stood from the couch and walked up to Aramis. He stopped when he was no more than a few feet away, loosely holding onto the knife that was still open. He stared calculatedly, seemingly unbothered by the fact that he was a few inches shorter than Aramis. Looking at him closely, Aramis was forced to revise his opinion of the man. His first impression had been that the stranger was cold and indifferent, but he could now see that was not true. There was vicious hatred buried deep in the man's gaze. Aramis didn't know if it was directed at him or at the world in general, but he could feel the suppressed violence emanating from the man.

"Okay fine. Let's say I do," Aramis said, keeping his limbs relaxed and ready. "What if I don't want to back off?"

"Then I'll kill you, and I'll cut down anyone else that doesn't know how to mind their own business." The stranger said it casually, as if he was discussing the weather.

Aramis' eyes narrowed dangerously. "You'll find that it's not a good idea to threaten my friends."

"It's not a threat. It's a promise."

It was then that Aramis moved, springing forward with efficient grace. He knew the blade would be coming for him and he used both hands to block the swinging arm, grabbing it and using its momentum to twist the man's shoulder. With a short, hard chop to the wrist, Aramis forced the intruder to drop the knife and he quickly kicked at the weapon, sending it skittering under his couch. A hard punch to his kidneys found Aramis releasing the stranger and spinning away. Aramis lashed out with his foot and caught the man on the thigh, forcing him to stumble back with a grunt. The former soldier caught a metallic glimmer as the intruder straightened and his own hand went straight for the gun that was still holstered at his hip. The two men faced off, barrels leveled at each other's heads, guns cocked and ready.

"That was stupid," the intruder snarled.

"So was breaking into my home and threatening me," Aramis replied.

The man stared at him for a beat longer before slowly stepping to the side, weapon still up and steady. "You're going to regret this," he said flatly as he made his way for the exit.

Aramis didn't respond. This wasn't the first time someone had said that to him, and he was sure it wouldn't be the last. He watched warily as the stranger backed out of the door and disappeared from sight.

Aramis exhaled loudly and set his pistol down. Even though the intruder was gone, the tension he left behind was palpable. He quickly dialed Porthos' number. His brother answered on the second ring.

"We've got a problem."

 _tbc_

* * *

 _Thanks for reading!  
_


	6. Chapter 6

_He was alone._

 _Aramis figured he shouldn't have been surprised. He should have expected this to happen one day. His mother had given him up, and she had at least pretended to love him. His father had never pretended at all._

 _When he'd woken up in the drab motel room, late morning sunshine was streaming in through the broken blinds. Aramis had sat up in bed, blinking confusedly in the bright light. The bed next to his was rumpled but empty. He listened for the sound of running water or vomiting from the bathroom, but there was nothing but the white noise of the electric window fan turning. It was then that Aramis realized that everything was gone. Clothes, shoes, duffel bag - it was all gone. He slipped on a pair of ragged old sneakers that had been hidden under the bed and yanked the door open. He ran outside into the parking lot, looking for René's car. It wasn't there._

 _"Maybe he's just gone to get something to eat," Aramis said out loud, even as his heart sank under the weight of the truth. Despite his hatred of the man, it was agonizing to think that his father had simply abandoned him in this tiny town, throwing him away as carelessly as he'd throw away an empty bottle. The tightness in his chest increased, and Aramis felt something sting his eyes. Reaching up to rub at them, he was shocked to find them wet with tears._

 _Aramis went back inside the room and began searching. He looked through the closet and all the drawers and found absolutely nothing. René had taken everything, even Aramis' clothes. Aramis assumed that his father had likely been in a drunken stupor when he'd packed up his belongings._

 _With a disbelieving look on his face, Aramis plopped himself down on the edge of his bed. He fought to control the panic that was rising up inside of him and wasn't entirely successful. What was he supposed to do? Where was he supposed to go? How was he supposed to get there? And most importantly, where was he going to find something to eat? His empty stomach grumbled unhappily at the thought of food, and Aramis pressed his hand against it, willing it to stay quiet._

 _Staying in this little village was out of the question - it was too small, and people were bound to ask too many questions. He would always be an outcast, an outsider, in a place like this. He briefly thought about trying to find his way back home - despite his efforts to lock away memories of his mother, she would always be home - but then immediately rejected that idea, as much as his heart yearned for it. Aramis refused to be a burden. He wasn't going to go where he wasn't wanted. The fact that Catalina had given him away to his horrid father still hurt him profoundly, and the pain had given way to a stubborn teenage anger that bubbled furiously under his skin. No, crawling back to his mother would not be an option._

 _Aramis didn't know how long he sat on the bed, staring blankly at the ragged carpet as his mind whirled with confusion and doubt and fear. He was jolted out of his thoughts when the door to the room was flung open. For one heart-stopping, hopeful, anguished moment, Aramis thought that his father had come back for him._

 _He hadn't. The cleaning lady that had come to neaten up the room jumped in fright when she found Aramis inside._

 _"Oh heavens," the woman exclaimed, pressing a hand against her ample chest. "I didn't think anyone was still in here!"_

 _"Sorry," Aramis mumbled numbly, hopping to his feet. "I'm just...thinking."_

 _"Well, you'd best do your thinking elsewhere," the woman said, hauling her cart inside the room. "Check-out was hours ago. Where are your parents?"_

 _Aramis made vague excuses as the maid shooed him out. Standing under the covered walkway that circled the perimeter of the building, Aramis was at a complete loss as to what should come next. He had no family, no friends, no money, nothing. And so he just allowed his feet to move._

 _He ambled along the side of the road, unknowing and uncaring about what direction he was going in. The sun blazed in a cloudless, perfectly blue sky, and before long, Aramis was sweating under the unforgiving swelter of the summer. The road ahead of him shimmered in the heat. As he walked endlessly on, a nagging thirst joined the hollow ache in his stomach. He swallowed hard, trying to simultaneously wet his throat and fill his stomach. It didn't work. The rural country road cut through beautiful scenery, but Aramis took no note of it. He kept his head down and his legs moving despite the tiredness that began to tremble through his muscles._

 _It wasn't until early evening that Aramis encountered the first car on the road. It slowed as it drove alongside him. One of the windows rolled down as the driver leaned over and called out to him._

 _"Hey! Hey kid, are you alright?" He was a reedy young man with long, floppy hair and a pair of round glasses perched on his face. Kind eyes looked out from behind the spectacles._

 _At first, Aramis was so focused on his misery he didn't realize the car was there. The young man's words didn't register until he called out again._

 _"Kid! Can you hear me? Are you okay?"_

 _Aramis stumbled to a halt. He turned to look at the vehicle next to him, closing his eyes as a wave of dizziness washed over him. When he opened them again, he saw owl-eyes staring at him with open concern._

 _"Are you okay?" the young man repeated._

 _Aramis opened his mouth to tell him that yes, he was perfectly fine, but all that came out was a dry croak._

 _"I'll take that as a 'no'. Where are you headed, kid? Do you need a ride?"_

 _Aramis worked his tongue and forced himself to swallow. "Sure," he rasped. "Where are you going?"_

 _"I'm headed towards Paris," the bespectacled young man said, jerking his thumb at the pile of suitcases in the back of his car. "Going to take some summer classes at the Sorbonne."_

 _"I'll go to Paris," Aramis said._

 _"Get in then. I could use some company. It's a long drive."_

 _As Aramis got into the car, the young man handed him a fresh water bottle. "Here, it looks like you could use this."_

 _"Thank you," Aramis said politely before draining the entire thing in one gulp._

 _Paris. He supposed it was as good a place as any._

* * *

A large punching bag jerked violently on its tether as heavy blow after blow rained down upon the helpless leather sack. It had been taking continuous abuse for a good half an hour, with no sign that it would end anytime soon. The man fighting with the bag struck with laser focus, his chest heaving with exertion as he danced lightly in front of his imaginary opponent. Sweat dripped down the sides of his face and flew off his skin to leave a little ring of droplets on the rubberized floor. A small piece of his pent up frustration was released with a grunt each time his gloved fists made contact with the firm surface of the punching bag. There was still quite a bit of aggravation left.

It had not been a good week for Porthos. His worry for Aramis sat like a lead ball in the center of his chest, heavy and poisonous. His friend's uncharacteristic fits of temper were throwing him off-balance, and Porthos did not enjoy dealing with it. He knew from experience that smothering Aramis would do no good, but it was difficult to resist that impulse when he knew that his brother was struggling to deal with the sudden reminders of his past. Although it was obvious that Aramis had loved Pauline dearly, Porthos had a difficult time tamping down on his suspicion of the woman. He selfishly wished that she had never reappeared in his brother's life.

Porthos' stomach had dropped to the floor when he'd received the strained phone call from Aramis a couple of nights ago. While the logical bit of his brain calmly informed him that Aramis was a trained soldier and more than capable of dealing with any intruders, the rest of his mind screamed about all the times his brother had barely managed to escape whatever trouble had found him. And it was his _home_. It felt dirty that this man had infiltrated a space that should always be safe.

While Aramis had physically been fine, Porthos could see that the encounter had left a mental mark on his brother. From the bruised circles under Aramis' eyes, Porthos was certain that he hadn't slept since finding the stranger in his flat. Although outwardly he seemed relatively unbothered by it all, Porthos could see the tightly wound strain simmering beneath the surface. Aramis had cast his protective net as widely as he could, demanding extra surveillance for Sylvie's shelter and constantly pestering Pauline, much to the woman's growing displeasure. It was exhausting to watch.

Porthos had overheard one-sided snippets of the initial conversation Aramis had held with his old friend, and it was clear from the frustration in Aramis' voice that Pauline was not being cooperative. It made no sense to Porthos, and it bothered him that the woman was being so stubbornly resistant to Aramis' pleas. The man she was consorting with was dangerous. Period. It was crazy to him that she remained stubbornly blind to it. He understood that the weight of Aramis' concern could be overbearing at times, but he'd also learned to respect his brother's instincts and warnings. He grudgingly supposed he couldn't fault Pauline for not having learned that lesson yet.

All in all, Porthos was left feeling unsettled and prickly. Beating his fists against a punching bag - or a human opponent - at the local boxing gym had never failed to soothe his nerves, and Porthos was pleased to find that the tension was slowly easing from his tired muscles.

"Porthos? Porthos!" It took a second or two before the sound of his name broke through his concentration. It took another beat for him to realize that it was a woman's voice that was speaking to him.

"What?" He grabbed a hold of the bag to still it, his breath coming in fast pants. He looked around to find that the gym was empty and mostly dark. "Who's there?"

"You should pay more attention. The Porthos I knew would never let anyone just sneak up on him." Flea stepped from the shadows into the puddle of light thrown by the one overhead lamp that was still on. Porthos growled when he was able to get a good look at her. He ripped off his boxing gloves and placed his fingers under Flea's jaw, tilting her head to the side so that the light fully illuminated her pale skin. A faint purple stain smeared across her cheekbone under the thick layer of makeup she had applied to her face.

"What the hell happened to you?" he demanded.

The petite woman's face briefly crumpled before she brought herself under control. "Porthos, Charon is...he's dead."

"What?" Porthos stared at Flea with a blank stare of disbelief. "But...how? What happened?"

Flea bit her lip, clearly fighting tears. "It happened so fast, I'm not really sure. They came for him last night. There were so many of them and they were so...they were like animals, Porthos. Remy and Alain are dead as well."

Even though Porthos hadn't seen Charon in years, he felt a piece of himself quivering with shock. Charon and Flea had been the closest thing he had to family when he was a kid, after his mum had died. It felt like the passing of an era.

"Oh Flea. I'm so sorry." He gently pulled the woman towards him. She didn't resist and pressed herself against him, burying her head in his sweaty t-shirt as she wept silently. They stayed like that for a minute before Flea pushed herself away, inhaling deeply and carefully wiping away the tear tracks on her cheeks.

"Death is a part of life," she said practically, her chin still trembling. "I knew he'd die one day."

Porthos shook his head, anger growing out of his sorrow. "Do you know who did this? Was it rivals?"

"I don't know. They didn't exactly introduce themselves before killing everyone," Flea said bitterly.

"I'm sorry." Porthos stood in awkward silence, wishing he could slam his gloves back on his fists and go another twenty rounds with the bag. Instead, he waited patiently. There was a reason that Flea sought him out, beyond sharing the news of Charon's murder. Soon enough, Flea pulled out a small scrap of paper from her pocket.

"I also wanted to pass this on to you. These were the only nibbles Charon got related to your case. Either there's nothing going on, or the people involved are very good at keeping their mouths shut."

Porthos straightened up, the full weight of his attention on the woman before him. "I'll take anything you've got."

"Immigrant kids aren't just disappearing from your friend's shelter." She handed over the paper to Porthos. "That's a list of places in Paris that have said that have had children missing for more than a week. It's mostly ones that have no family in France, ones that will never have anyone looking for them. And it's mostly girls."

A shiver of disgust ran up Porthos' spine. "How long has it been going on for?"

"A few months, maybe longer. One more thing," Flea said, her voice lowering despite the fact that there was no one else in the gym, "there's a name that came up once or twice. Someone named Lucien Grimaud. It's a name I think I've heard before, and Charon said it made people nervous." Flea gave a little shrug. "I don't know if it's connected, but just keep it in mind."

"I will." He folded the piece of paper and tucked it into the pockets of his shorts. "Thank you, Flea. I know you didn't have to do this."

"These are my people, no matter where they were born. If there's something going on, I'm not just going to sit by and let it happen. Charon wouldn't either."

Porthos nodded. "We'll get to the bottom of it, whatever's going on."

As Flea began to walk away, Porthos called out to her again as something ominous clicked in his mind. "Flea, do you think Charon's death had anything to do with this information?"

The petite blonde woman stopped in her tracks, turning her head over her shoulder. "Like I said, I don't know. Why do you ask?"

"Just a hunch." Porthos frowned, mulling it over. "If it is, I promise we'll take them down."

"I'm holding you to it," Flea said softly.

"Watch your back, Flea. If they came for Charon, they might come back for you," Porthos said, concern coloring his voice.

"Don't you worry about me," Flea scoffed with a toss of her hair, a bit of her normal spirit showing through. "I know they're there now. They'll find that I'm not so easy to catch off guard." With that, Flea walked away, a lonely figure melting back into the darkness.

With his personal therapy session effectively over, Porthos picked up the boxing gloves he dropped and went to grab his gym bag before locking the place up. They had a name, which was more than they had before. Flea's tip wasn't much to go on, but if anyone could pick out a pattern from nothing, it would be D'Artagnan.

* * *

 _These are streets that he hasn't seen in a long time. These are buildings that he wouldn't have been able to describe if someone asked him to, but are immediately familiar to him now that they are in front of him. They are different from the stately structures in Paris, a little looser, more festive with their brightly painted façades and terracotta roof tiles. Palm trees line the sidewalks and the sun is warm on his skin. If Aramis closes his eyes and concentrates, he thinks he can smell a hint of brine in the air, carried by the gentle breezes blowing in from the Mediterranean._

 _A gentle hand squeezes his as he walks along, and he looks up adoringly into the lovely face of his mamá. For some reason he has a difficult time seeing her clearly - her features are indistinct as if she is hiding behind a misty veil. But it is no matter. In his heart he knows that her skin is a rich tan that is a shade or two darker than his, and that her eyes are a mirror image of his own. The curling brown hair that cascades past her shoulders is the same as the unruly waves that sprout from his head, constantly tangled and hanging in his eyes. Aramis is suffused with childish joy at the prospect of spending the entire day with his mamá, so he can't understand why such a heavy weight is sitting in his chest, pressing painfully against his heart. He thinks he feels wetness on his cheeks, but when he grazes his fingers against his face, there is nothing there._

 _"Where are we going, mamá?" he asks, skipping alongside her and swinging their arms back and forth. Pauline has given him chocolate for breakfast, and he can feel the sugar rushing through his blood. He is excited, but also maybe a little apprehensive._

 _"You're going to a better place, mijito. Doesn't that sound nice?"_

 _"Are you coming too?"_

 _The smile that his mamá gives him is full of pain, but he doesn't know why. She looks so incredibly young. She's just a child herself. "I can't, mi cielito."_

 _"Why not? I don't want to go without you."_

 _His mamá kneels down in front of him and gathers his small body into his arms. He's older now, but undersized for his age. One wouldn't know that he's nearly a teenager from looking at him. Aramis leans into his mamá's comforting hold, pressing his face against her shoulder. "You have to go, Aramis. You don't have a choice. He's coming to take you."_

 _"No! I don't want to go. Don't let me go, mamá!"_

 _A strong hand grabs him by the arm, and he's suddenly torn from the safety of his mamá's arms. Aramis screams as he's pulled away from her, struggling to free himself from the terrible grip that is taking him away from everything he has ever known. But he can't break free - his father's claim on him is too strong, and his mamá doesn't have the strength or the will to fight back._

 _"It's for the best, mijo. Te amo. Go."_

 _Her voice echoes around him, swirling in the air and then fading into nothing. He sees her mouth moving, but he can't hear her anymore. As he's dragged away, he can see the light in her eyes go out, can see her skin bleached white. She withers away into an empty husk and falls back, her body disappearing into an open pit._

 _"No! Let me go!" Aramis cries. "I don't want to leave!"_

 _The grip around him grows stronger, tighter, more painful. "You belong to me, boy. Forget the whore." His father's breath is hot on his face, and it's poisoned with alcohol. "You're mine, and she's dead."_

 _A moan escapes him as he tugs and pulls, desperate to get away. He fears that he will rip himself apart. The force holding him back suddenly disappears, and Aramis stumbles, unable to deal with his abrupt release. His steps fumble and fail, and then he too is falling. He falls and falls, soaring untethered into a dark abyss when he hits the bottom. He has landed on a pile of dirt, and he looks up to find an empty grave, marked only by a simple wooden cross._

 _"Where were you, Aramis, when I needed you? I needed you, mijo," says the cross. "Why didn't you come back to me? Why did you let me die alone?"_

 _"I'm sorry, I didn't know! He never told me anything..." The weight in his chest is now a vice, and it has crushed his heart into a bloody pulp. He can't breathe around the mess that has been left behind. He reaches for the cross but it keeps slipping away from him._

 _"Why didn't you come back to me? Why didn't you come back to me?"_

 _"No, please, I wanted to. I'm so sorry."_

 _"Why didn't you come back to me?"_

 _"I don't know..."_

 _"Why didn't you come back to me?"_

 _"WHY DID YOU LET ME GO?"_

Aramis jolted awake with a gasp. Lifting his head, he blearily looked around in confusion for a beat or two before his brain caught on to the fact that he was bent over his desk in the middle of an empty office. While the office was brightly lit, he realized that the view out the window was completely dark. His dream was already fading, and only traces of an aching unease lingered in its place.

"Damn it," he muttered. A glance at his watch told him that it was late. More importantly, _he_ was late. Aramis fumbled for his phone and swore when he saw two missed phone calls and a concerned text from Pauline. He hastily stood up and grabbed his coat, groaning as the stiff muscles in his lower back protested. He scrubbed a hand over his gritty, tired eyes and tried to wipe away any evidence that he had literally been sleeping on the job.

Racing out of the building and hopping onto the Metro, Aramis headed out towards the café at which Pauline had finally agreed to meet him. Didier's statement, the intruder's threats and Aramis' own crushing worry had been chasing each other through his mind, circling endlessly as he tried to focus on the case and on finding Mariam. Aramis hated the thought of approaching Pauline as if she were some sort of suspect or criminal and so had deliberately chosen not to bring her into their office. He wanted to maintain that his old childhood friend was completely innocent, but Aramis was finding it increasingly difficult to explain away the last few days and her involvement with an obviously dangerous person. A seed of doubt had been planted in the back of his mind and as hard as he tried to stomp it out, the damn thing kept sprouting back up. He could almost hear Athos' voice in his ear, warning him not to ignore his instincts, but Aramis decided that he could ignore that too.

He arrived at the café and found Pauline sitting at a table in a secluded corner, nervously playing with her glass of wine.

"I'm so sorry I'm late," Aramis said as he took the seat in front of her.

"That's fine. I was getting worried." She gave him small smile. "Is this a bad time?"

"Not at all. I was just...distracted." Aramis rubbed a hand over his head. "Pauline, I'm going to have to ask you some more questions about Mariam and the other missing children."

"I see." Pauline looked surprised. "Did you find something?"

Aramis slouched back in his seat. He wasn't thrilled about having to do this, but he was also desperate to find something that would help him figure out what the hell was going on. The two desires clashed unpleasantly against each other. His need for answers prevailed, as it almost always would. "Did you speak to Mariam before she disappeared?"

"I don't know. Perhaps? It can be hard to keep track, I work with so many of them. Why?"

"I need to you try to remember, Pauline. It's important."

"Hmm." Aramis watched as Pauline's fingers tapped anxiously against the bowl and then moved down to the stem, absently twirling the glass. "It's possible. She was a shy girl."

"And what did you talk about?"

"Aramis, I really don't remember. Why are you asking me this?"

He sighed as he drummed his own fingers against the edge of the table. "One of the kids told us that Mariam had spoken to you before she left. That she had gone out alone on your advice."

"Oh." His childhood friend looked taken aback, and then a look of shocked realization crossed her face. It was quickly chased by a hurt expression. "Wait a minute. Do you think that I had something to with this?"

"I don't know, Pauline. That's what I'm trying to figure out."

His heart wrenched as he watched Pauline's lovely face crumple in disbelief. "How could you think that of me? What a horrible thing!" She turned away from him as her eyes began to fill with tears.

He gently took her shaking hands into his own, trying to prevent her from crying. "Pauline. I just want to know what happened. That's all."

It was too late. Pauline broke down and began to weep quietly, her slim shoulders shaking with misery. With a shake of his head, Aramis moved to the other side of the table and tentatively wrapped his arm around his friend. He was relieved when she leaned into him, seeking comfort. When her tears began to slow, Aramis took her face in his hands, his eyes earnest as he peered into hers.

"Please believe me, I don't want to hurt you. But I can't ignore the information that we have, not when these kids' lives could be on the line."

Pauline's eyes slid away from his. "Who accused me?"

Aramis sighed and let her go. "It wasn't an accusation. Didier was just worried about his friends, and I asked him to tell me anything he rememebered."

"I see." She didn't offer anything else.

Aramis pursed his lips and made a decision. "Pauline, I know you're not being entirely truthful with me," he said quietly, a hand raised to hold off her protests. "There's something wrong, I can tell. I know I've said this a thousand times already, but if you're in trouble, or if you're afraid to talk for whatever reason, we can help you. Please. Talk to me."

The blonde woman made vexed face. "Oh, not this again. Aramis I've already told you, I'm not some damsel in distress. Why couldn't you just leave it alone?" There was a hysterical note in the rising pitch of her voice.

"I'm not sure you understand how dangerous that man is," Aramis persisted. "He broke into my home, Pauline. Made threats that I do not take lightly. We can protect you. I promise."

"How can you protect me if you can't even protect yourself?" Derision seeped through her words and Aramis chose to ignore it.

"Well, I'm still here, aren't I? And it wouldn't be just me. It would be all of us looking out for you."

"You mean you and your friends?" Aramis didn't miss the bitter note in her voice.

"Yes. They're good men."

Pauline still refused to meet Aramis' gaze. "If someone told you that one of these good men had done something terrible, would you believe it? Would you doubt them the way you doubt me?"

"Pauline..." Aramis trailed off, sounding pained. He shook his head. "They would never do something like this. They couldn't." If there was one thing in which Aramis had absolute faith, it was his brothers. They were his foundation, the one thing he could depend on when everything around him crumbled.

"But you think I could? I don't understand. Aren't we friends too?" Pauline demanded loudly.

"Of course we are. But...it's been a long time since I've seen you." Aramis grimaced as Porthos' words came out of his own mouth. He tried to say it as kindly as possible, but knew he had failed when she looked at him with a mix of hurt and affront.

"I've known you since you were a baby! I've known you longer than practically anyone else. Doesn't that count for something?"

Aramis leaned on the table with his elbows, clutching at his hair with both hands. Their discussion was beginning to attract the attention of the other patrons. It was clear that if Pauline did know something, she wasn't going to tell him. Not here, anyway. He was going to have approach this a different way, because the direct method wasn't working. A deep ache settled in his chest as he finally acknowledged the fact that his old friend was hiding something from him. Something important.

"Look, I'm sorry," Aramis said resignedly. "It wasn't my intention to hurt you, or to offend you. I hope you can forgive me." Pauline didn't respond as she studied her own hands with unhappy focus. "Do you want to go?"

The blonde woman nodded. "Yes, I would."

As she got to her feet, Aramis tried again. "Pauline, please. We both know these missing children, we know how difficult their lives have already been. I had to ask, for their sake."

"It's your job. I know." She took a deep breath to steady herself and stared up at him from under wet lashes. "You could make it up to me by walking me home?"

"It would be my pleasure." Aramis offered her his arm and the two of them left, walking closely side by side. He could tell from the slight wobble in her steps that Pauline had likely had several glasses of wine before he'd arrived. His phone buzzed in his pocket and Aramis glanced at the text from Porthos. He swore quietly when he saw the message and quickly sent back a response. When he looked back up, worry and guilt were writ large on his face.

"Is everything okay?" Pauline asked.

"It's...fine. Let's go."

He allowed her to direct their path as the two of them walked along as Aramis had no idea where they were headed. As they wandered along, their steps took them deeper into one of the seedier neighborhoods. Pauline began to turn down a darkened alleyway and Aramis paused. Unease tickled the back of his mind and he disentangled his arm from Pauline's.

"Pauline? Are you sure we're going the right way?" This was not right. Something bitter rose up in the back of his throat.

"Yes, of course."

"I don't think - "

He didn't have a chance to finish expressing his doubt. The only warning that he had was a quick shot of adrenaline that unexpectedly burst through him, his body preparing to fight before his brain even realized anything was wrong. Aramis quickly shifted his weight back and narrowly avoided a knockout blow to his temple. Instead, the fist that came at him from the deep shadows to his right clipped his forehead as it flew by. He remained conscious, but staggered to the side from the heavy contact, stumbling into Pauline's frozen form. Before he could regain his balance, a heavy body collided with his own, roughly throwing him against the stone wall of the building that lined the alley. The back of his head smacked into the hard surface as a forearm pressed hard into his throat.

Holding off the foggy daze that threatened to envelop him, Aramis pushed his hands furiously against the arm that was cutting off his air. He managed to find his feet under him and viciously stomped down twice on his attacker's ankle in quick succession. He heard the other man curse and as soon as the weight at his throat lifted, Aramis shoved him back and followed up with two swift punches and then slammed his knee up into his attacker's midsection. Caught off guard by how quickly things had turned, his assailant stumbled and fell onto his back, groaning as he curled around his middle. Before Aramis could finish things, however, a pair of arms wrapped around him and yanked him backwards. Rather than falling, Aramis planted his back foot, crouched low and pivoted, using his momentum to smash his elbow into the second attacker. As he drew himself up, a third assailant swung something hard and unyielding swung at his face and this time, he couldn't avoid it.

The blow that caught the side of his head was immense. Aramis blacked out for a moment as his knees folded under him, and then just as suddenly jerked back awake as he hit the ground, unsure of whether his skull was still attached to his shoulders. Something wet trickled down from his forehead and over his ear. He thought he heard screams, but they sounded oddly muffled.

Aramis was vaguely aware of his instincts urging him to get to his feet and fight, but the warning came at him as if through a great distance, echoing endlessly before quietly dissolving away. It seemed as though his body was trying to roll onto its side, but a hard kick to his ribs drew out a choked grunt and forced him again onto his back. Another scream, and the realization that it was a woman's voice filtered through his rapidly fading awareness.

Gasping unevenly and with consciousness sliding away from his tenuous grasp, Aramis could only blink up at the dark metal glint of a silenced pistol that was pointed down at him. A desperate plea for his life and the deadly, muffled pop of the gun being fired were the last things he heard before he fell off the edge of a cliff and into blackness.

 _tbc_

* * *

 _Thanks for reading!  
_


	7. Chapter 7

_"You're a savage little bastard, aren't you?"_

 _The words were said with something like admiration as the other boy looked down at him, his chest heaving with exertion while his foot was planted on Aramis' chest. A trickle of blood ran from his nose, courtesy of one of Aramis' fists._

 _Aramis stared up at the boy from his prone position on the sidewalk with a snarl on his face. His entire body felt like one giant bruise, but he didn't let anything show. He'd quickly learned that to display any signs of weakness was an invitation to be chewed up and spit out by the small gangs that ran in packs on the outskirts of Paris._

 _"Get off me," Aramis grunted, pushing at the other boy's foot._

 _"No, not yet," the boy responded with a grin. He was lanky and tall, taller than Aramis, with stringy blonde hair that hung in his long, pale face. His watery blue eyes considered Aramis thoughtfully. "What's your name?"_

 _"Like I'd tell you," Aramis spat._

 _The other boy bent over with a sneer. "An attitude like that can get you into trouble," he said. "You must be new here."_

 _"I've lived here all my life," Aramis lied. "Now get the hell off me!" He shoved at the blonde boy's foot again and this time, he was released. Aramis rolled over onto his knees, panting for a second or two before climbing to his feet. As soon as he did, the other boy shoved him and Aramis staggered back a step._

 _"You ruined our fun, you know." There were two other boys that stood behind the tall blonde one. They hung back, clearly content to let their leader do all the talking. "Why bother defending a piece of trash?"_

 _The three ragged boys had been following a brown-skinned young man down the street, sniggering as they made rude comments about his skin color, his turban, his clothes, his parentage. Aramis had been sitting on the sidewalk, tucked into the side of a cement stairwell when they had passed by. At first, he'd pressed himself further into the shadows, keeping to himself and unwilling to be noticed. He'd seen the three boys before and had made it a point to steer clear of them. He avoided everyone these days, electing to run alone rather than affiliate himself with anyone. It was safer that way. But one of the comments had caught his ear, and the unnecessary cruelty of it had triggered something inside his brain. The words reminded him too much of René's malice, and despite the months that had passed, the sting of his father's abandonment was still fresh and raw._

 _And so he'd sprung out of his hiding place and had jumped on the tall boy in front, growling with pent-up rage. He was never going to win the fight, but it felt good just to_ do _something. The young man that had been targeted took one look at the scuffle and ran, disinclined to get involved in something that seemed to be none of his business, leaving Aramis to take on the three boys himself._

 _"Because it's wrong," Aramis shot back. "You shouldn't talk to people like that."_

 _To Aramis' surprise, the tall blonde boy looked a bit sheepish at his rebuke. "We didn't mean anything by it," he muttered._

 _"Then don't do it," Aramis said fiercely._

 _The tall boy regarded him with curiosity while the two other boys behind him shuffled a bit, eager to get moving. "I've seen you before. You run by yourself?" When Aramis remained silent, he tilted his head with a frown. "Don't be like that. We could use someone like you, you know."_

 _Aramis crossed his arms. "I don't need you."_

 _The tall boy scoffed. "Now I know you're new. You may think that now, but life here is tough without anyone to watch your back. You won't last long." He reached out with his hand, his face relaxing into an expression of calculated friendliness. "Come on, then. Join us for a bit. We can help you, you can help us."_

 _The extended hand hovered between them as Aramis stared at it, considering. He didn't want to take it. He wanted to be self-sufficient, to be alone. He couldn't be rejected again if there was no one in his life to do so. Except...Aramis hated being alone. It went against his very nature._

 _Decision made, Aramis gripped the other boy's hand almost against his own will, and the blonde boy bared his teeth in an approximation of a smile. "Wise choice," he said. "Now you're going to have to tell me your name."_

 _"Aramis."_

 _"Aramis. That's...interesting. I'm Marsac."_

* * *

When Athos walked back into their bullpen after a meeting with Tréville, the clicking of keys was the only sound that filled the room as D'Artagnan furiously typed away on his laptop. A scan around the space showed Porthos at his desk, pretending to fill out paperwork. Aramis' desk remained conspicuously empty despite the late morning hour. He saw Porthos glance towards it as well, before returning his eyes blankly to the sheets in front of him. Athos tried to convince himself that it was nothing to worry about, that it certainly wasn't the first time Aramis had been late to work, but that didn't stop a sourness from curdling in his stomach. Something felt very wrong.

"Where's Aramis? He's not in yet?"

"No. I stopped by his place this morning before I left, and he didn't answer his door," Porthos replied, sounding worried. "He sent me a text last night after I told him about Charon. Said he'd stop by but never did."

Athos frowned, digesting that information. Aramis sometimes worked irregular hours, but he almost always checked in if he wasn't going to be where he was expected. It was a professional courtesy as well as a way to nip any concern before it had a chance to grow out of control.

D'Artagnan briefly glanced up from his computer screen and then glued his gaze back onto his screen, his eyes speedily scanning through whatever information was displayed. A few minutes later he looked up, a look of trepidation crossing his face.

"Hey guys?"

"What? Did you find something?" The big man immediately abandoned all pretenses of working and walked over to D'Artagnan's desk.

"Yeah, maybe? So I checked everything I could think of that might link the places on the list that Porthos gave me. Other than the fact that they largely serve migrant populations, the only thing that really connects them is the fact that someone named Pauline Leroux is on the books as a consultant at several of these places, including Sylvie's." D'Artagnan flipped his laptop around so that the other two men could see his screen. On it was a shot of an identification card with a picture of a pretty blonde woman and the name "Pauline Leroux" emblazoned next to it. "This is Aramis' friend. It's the same woman I met at Sylvie's shelter."

Porthos frowned. "'Mis isn't going to like that."

"More to the point, I don't like it," Athos added. He took out his phone and dialed Aramis' number, frowning when the call was immediately directed to voicemail. The sick feeling intensified, but he kept his face blank. "His phone is off. Porthos, you're with me. Let's check his home again just in case. D'Artagnan, wait here and see if Aramis comes in. Call Sylvie and find out if Aramis is with her, and ask whether Pauline is there as well. If not, send me all the addresses that Pauline is associated with."

"Ah, hang on a sec. I'm not finished," D'Artagnan said before the other two men could leave.

"What is it?" Porthos asked.

"I also looked into that name that you gave me. Lucien Grimaud?" D'Artagnan tapped a few keys and pulled up another photo. This time a pale, bearded man with long, dark hair and dead eyes stared back at them.

"And? What about him?" Impatience and worry made Porthos gruff.

"Well, his name is tied to just about every type of crime you can think of. Murder, assault, smuggling, weapons trafficking, drug trafficking, breaking and entering, it goes on and on. It's a pretty nasty list. I had to really dig for it, though. He's never actually been charged with anything. No arrests on record. Police have never been able to touch him." D'Artagnan frowned. "It seems like he's got someone covering for him, big time."

Athos sighed, briefly pinching the bridge of his nose. "Call Desailly as well. Let him know what we've found so far. See if we have enough to put an APB on this man."

D'Artagnan nodded. "I will. I hope Aramis isn't in trouble."

"I do too, but then again, this is Aramis we're talking about," Athos replied. He waited a beat before continuing. "He told me he was finally meeting with Pauline last night."

Porthos let loose a string of curses that hung interminably in the air. "You've got to be kidding me," he muttered in frustration and then glared at Athos. "Are we going or what?"

He and Porthos drove back to their building and ran up the stairs to Aramis' flat. Porthos pounded on the door, calling out his brother's name.

"'Mis? You in there?" Porthos slammed his fist against the wood again. "Hey, wake up! Athos is pissed that you're late for work."

Athos gave the big man a salty look and Porthos shrugged. "It's worked before."

Eyebrow raised as high as he could get it, Athos shouldered Porthos aside and singled out a key on his keychain. He unlocked the door and turned the knob, noting that the door didn't look as if anyone had tampered with it, but nevertheless bracing himself for the chaos he feared he would find.

"We're coming in! You better be decent," Porthos warned. Resting one hand lightly on his holstered weapon, Athos pushed the door open.

To his relief, Aramis' flat was tidy and neat, just as the man always kept it. It was also completely devoid of life. The two wandered through the rooms, looking for any sign that anything was out of place.

"Bedroom's empty. Doesn't really look like he's slept in his bed, but then again it's hard to tell with him," Porthos said as he walked into the kitchen. Athos peered into the sink and found a couple of rinsed dishes, but as Porthos had pointed out, it was impossible to tell when Aramis had last been in his home.

"He's obviously not here. Call D'Artagnan, see if he has any information."

Athos combed through Aramis' apartment again, this time keeping his eyes peeled for more subtle signs of struggle or distress. He dialed Aramis' cell phone and was again greeted by his recorded message. Picking up a framed picture on one of the bookshelves, Athos stared down at his own smiling face along with that of his three friends. Aside from one or two snapshots of Porthos and Aramis when they were younger, most of the photos that were sparsely scattered throughout the sniper's home were likely all taken within a five year span or so, after Aramis' military discharge. Porthos had a couple of keepsakes from his mother, and D'Artagnan had decorated their flat with pictures of his family, his father featuring prominently amongst them. Aramis, however, had no pictures displayed of his mother or father, or of anyone that Athos did not recognize. There was nothing here to suggest that he had any sort of life before he'd met Porthos and Tréville. It was as if Aramis was trying to deny his past by pretending that it had never existed. Athos recognized the strategy, since he used it himself. Unfortunately, the past was not something that could be so easily erased.

He was shaken from his reverie when Porthos called his name. "D'Artagnan said it's a no-go with Sylvie. She hasn't seen Aramis for a while. She also said that Pauline canceled her appointments today. Called in sick."

The phone in Athos' hand buzzed before he could reply and he glanced at the screen. "I have her home address."

"Well, what are we waiting for?" Porthos charged out of the flat and back down the stairs, impatient and anxious. Athos followed him at a more sedate pace, locking up his brother's flat and dialing his number once more. Voicemail again. Athos left a quick message this time, asking him to call immediately. He recalled what Aramis had told them about the stranger that had broken into his flat. _I'll kill you,_ the intruder had said. It was all connected somehow, but he felt like he was missing something crucial. Athos couldn't hold back the creeping feeling of dread any longer. There was definitely something terribly wrong, and he feared that Aramis would suffer for their inability to put the pieces together.

* * *

The address that D'Artagnan had sent to Athos led the two men to the 7th arrondissement, one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in Paris. They walked up to a beautiful old stone building situated on a broad, leafy avenue just blocks away from city's most famous monument. It was sleepy and peaceful, lazy in a way that was only accessible to the moneyed classes.

The two men buzzed the intercom for the unit that belonged to Pauline and waited. "Yes?" A male voice sounded through the speaker.

"Is Pauline Leroux at home?"

"May I inquire after your names, please?" came the polite response.

"Athos de la Fère. I'm with my partner Porthos du Vallon. We're from Peyrer Investigations." Athos said.

"And what is your business with Mademoiselle Leroux?"

"We need to ask her a few questions about a case we're working on."

"I see." There was a long pause and then, "Please come up."

Athos and Porthos made their way up on an old-fashioned elevator with a gated door. When they arrived at the top floor, they were greeted by a neat-looking young man who requested to see their identification before ushering them into the apartment.

"Damn. When Aramis said that Pauline made a decent life for herself, he wasn't kidding," Porthos muttered under his breath as they walked through the entryway. The elegant foyer had marble tiling and a tasteful crystal chandelier that dangled from the high ceiling. Miniature sculptures lined one wall, each one set on its own stone pedestal.

"How much do you think a place like this costs? Two million euros? Three?" By Athos' estimation, Porthos was off by a coupe million, but before he had the chance to answer, the young man - an assistant, Athos guessed - turned to them.

"Please wait here. I will let Mademoiselle know you have arrived."

The sitting room they were left in was beautiful. It was spacious and bright, with four large, two-paneled windows that monopolized an entire wall. The panes were open to let in the cool spring air, and the gauzy white curtains framing the windows danced in the light breeze. Elegant white millwork accented the light grey walls, and large, luxurious rugs with intricate patterns lay on gleaming wood floors. In contrast to the airiness of the room, the furniture was heavy and old-fashioned, with chairs and sofas covered in rich brocade or velvet fabric. Athos took it all in with a quick glance, and immediately hated it. The whole place stank of outrageous wealth. It reminded him too much of his childhood.

"Pardon me, but who are you? How did you get into my home?"

A suspicious male voice interruped Athos' thoughts. He turned to find an older man that looked to be in his fifties, with short greying hair and a neat beard, peering at them suspiciously from the entryway of the room.

"My name is Athos de la Fère, this is my partner Porthos du Vallon," Athos repeated. "We need to speak with Pauline Leroux. Who are you?"

"St. Pierre, Pauline is my fiancée." The man gave them an imperious stare. "Why on earth would you need to talk to Pauline?"

"We are investigating a missing persons case, and Pauline's name has come up in connection with it," Athos explained.

A look of indignation crossed the man's face. "You think she had something to do with a _crime_? That is outrageous! I'm going to have to ask you to leave." The man moved to grab Athos by the arm, but he deftly stepped away.

"I'm sorry, but I can't do that. Our colleague has also gone missing, and we believe that Pauline was the last person to see him," Athos said with a calm he didn't feel. "We need to talk to her."

"Absolutely not, I forbid it! If you want to speak to Pauline, you will go through the proper channels and call our lawyer."

Athos withheld a sigh and stared at the other man flatly. "We don't have time for that."

"I don't care if you don't have time for it. I demand that you leave, now!"

Porthos growled at his side, his patience growing short. "You can demand all you want. We're not leaving without questioning her."

The man's face flushed with rage. "How dare you? This is my home!"

"St. Pierre, please." A woman's quiet voice interrupted the argument. A slender, blonde figure entered the room. She looked at Athos and Porthos. Her eyes were red and swollen, as if she'd been crying.

"Are you Pauline Leroux?" Athos asked, happy to have a reason to ignore the screaming man.

"I am. Are you Athos or Porthos?"

"Athos."

"Pauline, you have absolutely no obligation to speak to these men," St. Pierre interrupted. "I will have them removed immediately."

"No, it's fine. If there is trouble, I'd like to help. You're one of Aramis' friends," Pauline said pensively to Athos. "He mentioned you."

"He said you were a friend as well. Aramis might be in trouble, Pauline. We need to know when you saw him last."

Pauline's expression started to fold but she stopped herself and took a deep breath. "Could we talk elsewhere?"

"We don't have time for this," Porthos argued crossly. "We need answers, and we need them now."

"Please," Pauline implored quietly with a quick glance at St. Pierre. "I will tell you anything you want, but not here."

"Pauline?" The older man had gone from fury to confusion so rapidly that it was almost comical. "What is going on?"

Athos read the situation quickly and decided to grant Pauline's request. No matter what happened, Aramis would not have wanted Pauline to be humiliated in front of her fiancé. "We can go back to our office. It's only ten minutes away."

Porthos grumbled with dissatisfaction but didn't dispute the decision, much to Athos' relief. With her partner sputtering in the background, Pauline left her elegant home behind and followed the two men back to their office.

* * *

They were intimidating men, these friends of Aramis'. Pauline surreptitiously considered the two men occupying the front seats of the car as they drove. With Porthos, his formidable bearing was obvious as he carried the power of his bulk with pride and confidence. With Athos, however, it was much more subtle. The man had a calculating gaze, as if he were constantly weighing everything and everyone around him. She had felt like all her sins had been exposed when he laid his eyes on her. Pauline recalled the way Aramis had looked when he had briefly talked about his friends, remembered the love in his smile and in his words. If these good, intimidating men held regard for Aramis that was even half as high as he clearly held for them, she had no doubt that they'd travel to the ends of the earth to find him.

She wasn't surprised that his friends had come, that they had figured it out. It was almost a relief. Pauline had known that Aramis would be taken. She had been given detailed instructions of what to do and where to be, but the speed and violence with which they'd attacked him had shocked her. For some reason, she thought they wouldn't actually hurt him, that he'd be just fine. How wrong and stupid she had been.

Aramis had been a kind, beautiful little boy with a caring heart, despite his impish determination to find trouble. Pauline knew that hadn't changed as she remembered the way he insisted on offering his support despite her constant rejection, and how regretful and loath he was to question her. But he did, even she though she'd done her best to distract him. The tears she had shed during their last meeting had not been crocodile tears. She had wept over the fact that this gorgeous, dream-like life she had built for herself crumbling around her. She had wept for the loss of Aramis' friendship.

"Pauline?" The sound of her name drew her out of her reverie. Athos stared at her through the rearview mirror, a crease between his eyebrows. Pauline guessed that he'd been trying to get her attention for a while.

"Yes? I'm sorry, I'm feeling a bit distracted."

Athos' eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "Could you tell us where you met with Aramis last night?"

"I don't remember the name of the café. It was on Rue du Jourdain, near Pyrénées."

"That's a bit far from home," Athos commented. "What time?"

"Around ten o'clock." Pauline tore her eyes away from Athos' and stared out the car window.

"Porthos? Send that information to D'Artagnan, please."

"Already done," Porthos rumbled. He had been mostly quiet, but his tension and stress ballooned inside the small vehicle. Pauline felt like she might suffocate under its pressure.

As promised, it did not take long for them to reach their office. A young man, D'Artagnan, ran out to meet them as they walked down the corridor. She remembered him - he'd been the one with Aramis the day all this trouble started.

"Hey guys? I found something on the cameras." D'Artagnan spared her a brief, anxious glance. "You need to see it. Also...Sylvie called. She said Didier's gone missing."

Porthos swore as he took Pauline firmly by the arm and led her to a small room while Athos peeled off with D'Artagnan. He deposited her there without a word and then left her alone, slamming the door behind him. The room was furnished only with a desk and two chairs and Pauline sat in one, crossing her legs primly and setting her hands in her lap.

How had everything gone so wrong? She had come to Paris looking for a new life, a new beginning. She thought she'd managed to leave her past behind in Perpignan, that she had successfully escaped the tedious, hopeless slog of her old life. Then she had met _him_ , and that had been the beginning of the end. He'd seemed so appealing at first, a man with powerful friends and a fat bank account, but he'd turned out to be a complete sociopath. Worse, he somehow found out about her past and had ensnared her, like a helpless butterfly at the mercy of a venomous spider.

 _I had no choice,_ Pauline tried to convince herself as her chin trembled. _He would have destroyed me otherwise. Don't I deserve a good life?_

The door opened and Athos and Porthos walked in. Porthos' expression was absolutely thunderous, but Athos' face was unreadable as he silently placed a laptop in front of her. The screen had a grainy, black and white video on it and Pauline's heart sank. She already knew what the video would show as Athos hit play.

The camera was placed about a block away from the spot that she and Aramis had been attacked. She saw two figures, a male and female, strolling down the sidewalk. Despite the graininess of the picture, she knew that it was Aramis and herself. She recognized her own outfit and his easy gait. As she watched the two figures turn down an alleyway and disappear from the camera's range of sight, Pauline wanted to plead with her past self and to beg her not to go down this road. But it was too late.

A few long, silent minutes later, a van rolled up by the entrance of the alley and Pauline held her breath. Four men came out of the dark side street, and only three of them were conscious. They roughly dragged the fourth between them, his head bent forward and rolling loosely against his chest. Pauline covered her mouth with her hand. It was unmistakeably Aramis that they were carrying. She thought that there was a dark smear on the side of his face, but it was difficult to tell whether it was simply a lock of hair or something more sinister. Pauline had tried to forget the horrible, brutal crack of the pistol as it struck Aramis, had tried to forget the way that he'd crumpled bonelessly to the ground, but it came rushing back to her and left her gasping. For one terrifying, heart-stopping moment, she had thought that he was dead.

The three men threw Aramis into the van, hopped in and drove away. Pauline saw herself emerge from the alley a minute or two later and stagger down the street with one hand pressed up against the wall for support. She looked like someone who'd simply had too much to drink rather than someone who'd sold out one of her oldest friends for a little bit of security.

When she disappeared from the frame, Athos pressed stop and closed the laptop lid. Porthos leaned over the table, deliberately placing both palms against the cold, hard surface as he stared down at her.

"What. Happened." His words were measured, but his voice was full of cold fury.

Tears spilled from Pauline's eyes again against her wishes. She was exhausted. She was exhausted from crying all the time, exhausted from hiding and from lying. Pauline had been poised at a tipping point for some time now, and she finally knew which way she wanted things to fall. Shock had numbed some of the memories from the previous night, but watching a helpless and unconscious Aramis get spirited away, and knowing that it was her fault that he was hurt and missing, clarified things for Pauline in a way that nothing had before.

"I was told to be at a certain place, at a certain time, with Aramis." Pauline started.

Porthos' expression got even darker. "What the hell does that mean?"

Pauline took a deep breath. "It was a setup. The man I work for has been angry about your investigation, and had asked me to bring Aramis to that location so he could arrange a meeting. I didn't...I didn't know that they'd attack him like that."

Porthos growled quietly but vehemently. "Is he still alive?"

"I - I think so."

"How badly was he hurt?" Athos asked.

"I don't know. There was a fight and it was dark. It was hard to tell." Pauline's voice shrank into itself.

"How many men?"

"Just the three of them."

Porthos' expression darkened. Aramis was a very good, scrappy fighter, but three on one odds after an ambush were never going to be favorable.

"They wanted to kill him, but I made them stop. I told them that he had friends in law enforcement and that it would cause too much trouble." Pauline swallowed hard. "You have to believe me, please. I didn't think they'd hurt him."

Porthos narrowed his eyes at her. "Would you have done differently if you knew?"

Pauline looked away, unable to meet the big man's eyes. She would like to think the answer was 'yes', but in all honesty, she just didn't know. Porthos huffed in disgust and pushed himself away, as if he couldn't stand being near her.

"Where is he? Do you know where they took Aramis?" Athos asked her urgently.

The blonde woman shook her head. "I don't. Lucien has several hideouts that he uses. It could be any one of them."

"Lucien? Lucien Grimaud?" Athos' eyes widened. He heard Porthos cursing in a steady stream behind him.

"Yes." Pauline was confused. "Do you know him?"

"Was he one of the men that attacked Aramis?" Athos asked.

"No. Lucien wasn't there. But he's the one that arranged the, um, meeting."

"Is he the man that Aramis saw you with?" Athos pressed.

"Yes," Pauline whispered.

"Damn it!" Porthos shouted as he furiously kicked at the wall.

Athos ignored the outburst. "Is Grimaud behind the missing children?"

Pauline nodded. "I'm sorry," she said desperately.

Athos didn't acknowledge her apology. "And are you involved in this?"

Pauline pressed her lips together as she began to tear up again. "Yes." Intense shame flushed through her face.

Athos tossed a pen and a pad of paper in front of her. "Write down all the locations you know of. We'll check them all if we have to," he instructed. Pauline took the pen in shaking fingers and scribbled down a list of four addresses. When she was finished, Athos snatched the pad away from her and tore the sheet off, handing it to Porthos without looking at it. "Give this to D'Artagnan and tell him to suit up," he requested. "Let Treville know what we've found. We'll need to send someone to Sylvie's shelter, and to the other ones on Flea's list. Let Desailly know about Didier, as well. I'll be right behind you."

Porthos snatched the paper with a frown and thrust a shaking finger in Pauline's face. "You have a lot to answer for," he growled, trembling with suppressed rage and worry. He then stomped out of the room in a rush, letting the door slam loudly behind him. Athos gave her a cool stare. "I'm going to have to turn you over to the authorities," he told her flatly. "I hope you will cooperate with them as you have with us."

"Of course." She wasn't going to turn back now.

Athos considered her a moment longer, his arms crossed. "Aramis defended you. Even when we had information suggesting you were involved, he refused to believe it. Said that it couldn't possibly be true."

"He always liked to believe the best of everyone," Pauline murmured.

"Indeed," Athos agreed. "And too many people throughout his life have disappointed him. Let us hope that it doesn't end up killing him as well." With that, Athos left the room and left Pauline sitting by herself, alone with nothing but her guilt for company.

 _tbc_

* * *

 _Thanks for reading! :D_

 _Also, similar request as before...I couldn't find Pauline's actual last name, so if she has one, please let me know!_


	8. Chapter 8

_Aramis squinted up at the sky. He couldn't see much more than a narrow strip between the buildings, and what was visible was a dull, drab gray. Snowflakes gently drifted down from the sky, and Aramis blinked dazedly as some of them caught on his eyelashes. He figured that some of the snow had landed on his skin, but he couldn't feel it. He was numb, for now. He was sure that would change soon._

 _"Marsac?" he croaked. He tried to turn over onto his side so that he could push himself to his feet, but his body refused to cooperate. "Marsac...where?"_

 _It took a minute or two, but suddenly his friend's face appeared above him. Marsac's blonde hair hung down towards Aramis' face and the ends of the dirty strands brushed along his face. He thought that perhaps Marsac had pressed his hand against Aramis' forehead and was smoothing his own hair back, but he couldn't really tell. Tears rolled down Marsac's cheeks and his nose was red from crying. Aramis could see that the pupils in his light blue eyes were blown out with shock and grief._

 _"Thank God, you're awake. I'm here, Aramis."_

 _"Are you...okay?" Breathing was a bit of a tedious chore. It made speaking difficult._

 _Marsac shook his head even as his mouth said, "I'm okay."_

 _"What...happened?" A fire in his chest was starting to melt the the numbing ice. Each breath he took crackled uncomfortably in his lungs. He remembered flashes of something like a fight. Fists and feet had pummeled him mercilessly and had eventually brought him down. There was someone else, though..._

 _"Mathieu? Is he...is he okay too?"_

 _Marsac ducked his head as he drew in a gasping sob. "He's...Mathieu's dead, Aramis. They killed him. He's dead!"_

 _"No..." Aramis tried to roll over again and this time agony ripped through his middle. He choked down a scream as he curled up, trying not to cry like a little baby. He heard Marsac call his name as if from a distance, and felt hands on him, trying to soothe the pain away. Just when Aramis thought the awful sensation would last for an eternity, it slowly began to recede. With a low moan, he lay still on his side, panting with exertion and riding out the small aftershocks that followed, praying that it would end soon._

 _"Aramis? Are you with me?"_

 _"Yes," he breathed out. "Mathieu? He's hurt?"_

 _"He's dead, Aramis."_

 _That made no sense to him. Mathieu couldn't be dead. They had just shared half a bottle of pilfered wine a few hours ago. Mathieu had told him a raunchy joke he'd heard and Aramis remembered groaning at it. His friend had the worst sense of humor._

 _Marsac suddenly swore as he looked up, a terrified frown pulling at his face. "No, no, no...someone's coming. I think they're coming back. Shit, Aramis, I need to go, okay?"_

 _"No...don't. Don't leave me." Panic welled up in Aramis as he tried to clutch at his friend's arm, desperate to make Marsac stay, but his fingers were only capable of spasming weakly against the cold, snow-dusted stone beneath him. "Marsac, please. Don't go." But it was too late. He didn't know if Marsac was ignoring him or simply hadn't heard him, but the other boy had already sprung to his feet and taken off, like a frightened hare sprinting away from a hound._

 _Whatever it was Marsac thought he had seen never came around, or whoever it was didn't think Aramis warranted any attention. And so he lay helplessly on the dirty sidewalk, shivering as cold settled into his bones alongside the pain. Winter in Paris was much colder than it was along the Mediterranean coast, and despite the two years he'd spent here, he still wasn't used to it. The world began to fade in and out and Aramis drifted with his eyes closed, hoping to fall back into a comfortable numbness and trying to forget he was alone._

 _A gentle hand on his shoulder startled him, and Aramis gasped. The sharp intake set his chest aflame again and he would have screamed if he had the strength for it._

 _"Oh crap! You're alive!" A voice that started deep cracked and ended high with surprise._

 _"Marsac?" Aramis whispered in his confusion. He cracked his eyelids open to find a stranger's face looking down at him._

 _"Sorry, not Marsac," the stranger said, his voice settling back down to its lower register. "I've called an ambulance. They're going to come soon, okay? Help is on the way. Just hang on."_

 _The stranger looked to be the same age as Aramis. He had light brown skin and a head full of tight, curly hair. An earring glittered in one ear, giving the boy a rakish air. Even though the frown on his face made him look intimidating, his brown eyes were warm and full of worry. He took off his coat and laid it over Aramis' shaking form._

 _"He left me," Aramis sighed. It was an old pain that mingled with the new ones inflicted on him._

 _The stranger's brows furrowed in confusion and then smoothed out. He carefully rubbed his hand over Aramis' arm. "Well, I'm not going to leave you, okay? I'm going to stay right here with you. I'm not leaving."_

 _Aramis nodded before drifting away again. If only he could believe it._

* * *

It was the pain that eventually woke him. It scraped incessantly at the edges of his awareness, and despite his best efforts to ignore it and fall deeper into a comforting pool of numbness, it dragged him closer and closer to the surface. Aramis came to with a gasp, blinking slowly and utterly confused about where he was and why he hurt so much.

The throbbing agony in his head was all-consuming. His brain felt far too large, and it seemed to him like it was pounding furiously on the inside of his skull, screaming to be let out. Which was odd, because a hazy memory floating through his mind suggested that someone had tried to crack his head open like a particularly hard egg. If anything, he was a bit surprised that his brains were still stuffed inside his head rather than freely decorating a sidewalk. With a low groan, Aramis squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to focus through the pain. For the moment he was alone, but the sense that he wouldn't be so for long cut through him sharply. He needed to figure out what was going on.

With his attention momentarily turned away from the terrible ache in his head, the other, lesser hurts in his body began to make themselves known. Aramis found that his cuffed wrists had been slung over a short pipe sticking out of a wall, and his body was dangling with his arms stretched tightly above his head. It was only thanks to his height that his toes brushed against the cement floor, but it wasn't enough to properly relieve the strain on his shoulders and wrists. The ache in his joints told him that he'd probably been hanging for quite a while before he came to.

He had been attacked; that much was obvious. As his memories came trickling back, his heart rate began to pick up. _Oh God...Pauline!_ He was fairly certain that she had been with him when he'd been ambushed. Dread flooded his limbs as he struggled to remember what had happened to her. Had she been hurt? Had she also been taken? Was she here with him?

"Pauline?" His voice came out as a dry rasp. He swallowed hard, grimacing at the stickiness in his throat. He was in a small, empty room with bare stone walls. The space was dimly lit by a single bare bulb that was connected to a power source by a thin external wire, creating deep shadows in the corners that could have easily hidden a body. The air was damp and cool, with a musty, unused smell to it. A basement, perhaps? Aramis flexed his arms to see if he could shake himself loose from the pipe from which he was dangling, but before he could really test his strength the knob on the door turned with a loud creak. He immediately went slack, allowing his head to drop down.

It sounded like two sets of footsteps. Heavy, most likely male. A hand grabbed roughly at his hair and yanked backwards. It took all of Aramis' willpower not to groan out loud as the harsh treatment jarred his aching head.

"He's not awake yet."

He felt the other person step behind him, and Aramis knew what was coming before the fist slammed into his kidneys. He bit the inside of his cheek hard and nearly gagged at the sensation but didn't make a sound. He stayed relaxed as his body gently swayed from the impact. Blood coated his tongue unpleasantly. He hoped that they would go away and leave him be, but he wasn't nearly so lucky.

A moment later, the fingers in his hair released him and without warning, pressed harshly into the open wound at his hairline. The pressure was excruciating, and this time Aramis couldn't keep himself from reacting. His eyes flew open with a choked gasp as the throbbing in his skull intensified.

"He is now." Aramis' heart sank when he recognized the voice.

As his vision focused, Aramis found himself staring into a face that he was getting very tired of seeing. It was the man that had been with Pauline, the same one that had broken into his home and threatented him. Another man, heavier with red hair and earrings, stood further back, his face hungry as he watched. An impressive bruise decorated his swollen eye, and the skin across the bridge of his nose was dark and broken.

"You're not very good at listening, are you? I told you to leave it alone." A look of curiosity briefly passed over the man's face before dissolving away into a sneer of disgust. "What are these children to you? Who are you to care?"

 _Someone has to care._ Aramis didn't bother responding out loud; he imagined the questions were likely rhetorical. Regardless, Aramis had no intention of giving anything away to this man. He bent his head again, giving a show of dazed weakness that was only half feigned.

Heavy booted footsteps tapping loudly and evenly against the concrete floor, marking his captor's movement as he paced back and forth. "The world gave up on them a long time ago. Their own people try to wipe them out, and the nations that they flee to see them as an inconvenience, nothing more." The man paused. "They are the garbage no one wants. Profit is the only thing they are good for."

It was as Aramis had feared - the children that were snatched from the streets were likely being sold to whomever was wealthy enough and corrupt enough to pay for such a thing. Most of the kids that had disappeared from Sylvie's shelter were young and female. Alone, afraid, and pliant. Aramis' stomach rebelled at the thought and he swallowed hard to keep from throwing up. He needed to get out of here. He needed to find Mariam as quickly as possible, before she was subjected to this terrible fate.

Fingers twisted in his hair again and now Aramis was seriously rethinking his vow to keep his hair long. He squinted painfully at the pale, bearded face that was inches from his own. "It's weakness like yours that ruins everything." Aramis could feel the other man's breath on his skin. "You're a very lucky boy, you know," he murmured softly. "You were supposed to be dead. But that's something that can easily be fixed." The red-haired man behind him shifted uneasily.

A small furrow appeared between Aramis' brows, but he still kept his peace. His captor didn't seem to care much whether Aramis participated in the conversation. "Pauline was overly fond of you, Aramis. She didn't have the stomach to end things cleanly and to just let you go. Weak, but what else can you expect from a whore?"

Aramis' world lurched on its axis. _Damn it all._ It wasn't so much the surprise as the lack of it that made him nauseous. Hurt from his old friend's betrayal mingled sickeningly with disgust directed at himself. How much time had he wasted refusing to seriously acknowledge something that he suspected? He should have pushed harder and demanded answers. He'd failed. This was on his head.

His conflict must have been apparent as a sneer briefly curled the other man's lips. He misread the source of Aramis' angst, however. "I found out later, after she'd already moved on to St. Pierre. I find it easiest to motivate people when you illuminate their self-interests."

Somthing clicked into place. "You're blackmailing her," Aramis whispered.

"No. I gave her a choice and she made her decision." The dark-haired man stepped away from him. "And now her decisions have made things difficult for me. She will have to be eliminated."

Aramis' heart rate began to pick up as nervous energy flooded through him. He fought to keep his breathing slow and steady, unwilling to give anything away.

"I'm going to have to move the merchandise ahead of schedule," Aramis' captor said to the other man. "Wipe everything, and close down operations. We'll be moving soon."

The red-haired guard gestured towards Aramis. "What do you want to do with him?"

The pale man gave Aramis a careless glance before heading for the door. "Do whatever you want, just make sure he ends up dead this time. I don't want any loose ends."

The red-headed man grinned cruelly as he eyed Aramis like a hungry vulture. "That won't be a problem."

"Don't take too long." A slamming door accompanied the orders.

The large man sauntered around Aramis in a slow circle, prodding at him roughly as he went. Aramis bit back a groan as he swung and spun on his stressed shoulders. He flexed his arms again, trying to still his momentum and relieve some pressure from his wrists. The cuffs were starting to cut into his flesh.

"Time for some payback, you little bastard," the man snarled. Aramis realized that this was likely one of the men that had jumped him in the street, and that his own fists were responsible for the heavy bruising on the man's skin. The redhead pulled a large hunting knife from a sheath tucked under his shirt and pressed in closely. With an eager look, he lightly dragged the blade down the side of Aramis' face. The tip of the sharp knife nicked the skin at the corner of the half-Spaniard's eye, releasing a small crimson trickle.

"This is going to be fun."

* * *

"All clear."

"Damn it!" Porthos shouted loudly, kicking over a piece of broken equipment as Athos' cool voice sounded in his earwig. He cursed again as his toe throbbed with pain. "Where the hell is he?"

"We've got one more place to go," D'Artagnan said. "He'll be there."

"He'd better be. Why is it always the last place we look?" Porthos muttered impatiently. "For once, why couldn't it have been the first?"

"Move out," Athos ordered, ignoring Porthos' tirade. "Do we have the next location?"

"Yes, we're ready to go."

Porthos turned and headed back towards the entrance of the abandoned textile factory. It was a tall cement and plaster building, its crumbling walls layered with graffiti and its many large windows broken or cracked. The building's five stories and countless rooms had taken a long time to search - too long, in Porthos' opinion, since they had come up empty-handed.

Worry made Porthos incredibly cranky and he was having a difficult time containing it. He appreciated D'Artagnan's certainty that they'd find their missing - and hurt - brother at the _next_ place on the list, but Porthos wasn't so sure. Aramis could have been moved from place to place, or he could have been hidden in a room that was not on any of the blueprints their young Gascon had managed to acquire. Or he could have been squirreled away in a hideout unknown to Pauline.

Or he could be lying dead in a ditch.

Furiously stomping down on the last thought, the big man reholstered his Beretta as he exited and ran towards their SUV. The weather had finally turned and it was a gorgeously sunny outside, but the beauty of the day was completely lost on Porthos. D'Artagnan had mapped out a route that would allow them to survey all the locations Pauline had given them as quickly as possible, but it still wasn't fast enough. The woman's words kept circling endlessly in his mind. _Attacked. Hurt. Wanted to kill._ Porthos would not dream of hitting a defenseless woman, but it had taken every ounce of his self-control to keep his hands to himself when she had confessed to purposely leading Aramis into danger.

Porthos threw himself into the back seat of the vehicle without a word and Athos peeled away as D'Artagnan put the next address into their GPS. The atmosphere in the SUV was tense and moody, the silence broken only by the female electronic voice that told them where to go and where to turn in excruciating detail. The last location was an abandoned Metro station at the edge of the city. It was, Porthos had to admit, a perfect place to hide someone, with long, dark tunnels, a mutltude of maintenance closets, access terminals, and unused train cars. As Athos navigated the busy, looping roads with practiced haste, he could practically feel the passing of time as if it was a physical thing. Each valuable second lost was carrying them further and further away from finding Aramis alive.

When they arrived, Athos double-parked the vehicle and all three men jumped out. They climbed down the stairs towards the Metro entrance and only to find their way barred by a wire grating that had been secured by a chain and padlock.

"Porthos?" Athos turned to him.

The big man wordlessly pulled out his trusty picks and set to work. Biting his tongue in concentration, he released the simple locking mechanism within seconds and quickly rolled back the gate. The three men pulled out their taclights and descended cautiously into the darkness of the deserted train station.

The sound of the footsteps echoed loudly as they walked onto the vacant platform. The unused railway tunnel extended in both directions, leaving them with a dilemma.

"Let's split up," Porthos suggested. "I'll take east, you guys can take west."

Athos nodded in agreement. "Be careful," he said.

"You too," Porthos returned. "Don't need anyone else to go missing."

Porthos took out his sidearm and held it ready in front of him as he quickly but carefully followed the rail lines east. He swept his taclight from side to side, illuminating the colorfully tagged stone walls. A few large rats skittered across his pathway, frightened by the sudden introduction of light into their dark domain. Porthos tried not to be irritated by the unnaturally static silence in his ear as he walked along. Normally, Aramis' quips and irreverent comments would constantly ebb and flow over their comms, helping to relax his teammates before they walked into dangerous situations. It had been incredibly annoying at first, and Porthos and Athos had spent most of their early missions together trying to get the half-Spaniard to shut up. Over time, however, they'd gotten accustomed to the chatter, if only because it had proven impossible to stop Aramis from talking. Porthos suspected that Athos might even secretly enjoy it. Now, the lack of noise was grating on his nerves.

The utility closets that lined the tunnel every fifty meters or so were frustratingly empty. Porthos passed by a small train graveyard with a few old cars and had spent a few fruitless minutes exploring each one. He stepped quietly, not wanting the sound of his movement to obscure any telling noises. He was finishing up with the last car when Athos' voice sounded in his ear.

"Porthos? What's your status?"

"Nothing yet. You find anything?" Porthos asked even though he knew there would be nothing for Athos and D'Artagnan to report.

"Negative. How far have you gone?"

"About two hundred meters, maybe more."

"These tunnels are eventually going to meet up ones that are in currently in use," D'Artagnan said. "We might have to have to turn back if that's the case."

"I'm not leaving without finding him," Porthos shot back.

There was a long silence over the comms. "You'll have to if he's not here," Athos said reasonably. Porthos hated when he did that. It was impossible to argue with the man. "We're going to find him Porthos. We won't stop until we do."

Porthos blew out a breath and then continued on. As he approached the fifth utility closet along the line, his ears perked up as they caught the sound of what sounded like a series of dull thumps and grunts. The noise was muffled, but it was one that was very familiar to Porthos. It was the distinct thud of flesh hitting flesh.

He approached the metal door quietly and stared at the round knob and the deadbolt above it. Porthos briefly debated as to whether he wanted to try kicking at the metal door, but then decided that he'd rather not break his knee. Turning off his taclight, he gave himself a beat or two to allow his eyes to adjust to the lack of light. Reaching for the knob, he was about to test it when without warning, the door swung open to reveal the figure of a man outlined by dim, flickering light, a wicked looking knife in hand and ready to pounce.

 _tbc_

* * *

 _Thanks for reading!_


	9. Chapter 9

_A bit of foul language ahead._

* * *

Aramis did not like to wait. This was a well-known fact amongst his brothers, who made it a point to tell him repeatedly that he was too reckless, too impatient, too rash. He preferred the term "calculated risk-taker", but that was neither here nor there. Aramis did sometimes wonder whether his military training as a sniper, a specialty that required endless amounts of perseverence and restraint, had eaten up all the patience that he possessed. Whatever the reason, Aramis did not like to wait, and he certainly had no intention of waiting for this red-haired man to carry out the threats he was currently issuing against Aramis' person.

In one swift motion, Aramis threw his head forward, smashing his forehead against the other man's damaged nose. The point of the blade, which had come to rest on his cheekbone, bit deeply into his skin and Aramis winced. _That's going to leave a scar,_ he thought with a brief flash of regret. He heard bone break with a satisfying snap and the man stumbled back, his knife clattering to the floor as he clutched at his bloody face.

The blow also set Aramis' head to ringing, and he had to waste a precious moment to blink away the black dots that danced across his vision. Swallowing back the sickening pain that threatened to overwhelm him, Aramis quickly began to swing his body back and forth, using his own momentum to move himself forward on the pipe that supported him. It was torture on his abused wrists and shoulders, but luckily the pipe was short. When he finally reached the end, Aramis dropped down to the ground, groaning as the change in position set off an intense burning in his arms.

He had no time to regain his equilibrium, however, as the large red-headed man had also straightened up again. A sheet of blood cascaded down from his broken nose, running over his mouth and off his chin. He glowered at Aramis, his eyes promising murder.

"I'm going to kill you nice and slow, you piece of shit," he growled.

Aramis tilted his head with a small, wild grin. He spat out a mouthful of blood and watched with satisfaction as the dark red glob landed on his adversary's foot. "You're welcome to give it your best shot."

The knife lay on the ground between them, beckoning each man to make the first move to try and claim it. Aramis knew it was there, but he didn't look at it. Instead, he surged up from his crouch and jammed his shoulder into the man's midsection, which he suspected was still tender from their last encounter, and pushed him back into the wall. The other man grunted as his back hit concrete and his breath left in a rush. He brought his fists down hard on Aramis' back, but at this point adrenaline was humming happily through the ex-soldier's veins, allowing him to brush off the blow without pause. Although Aramis could tell that he was the superior fighter, with his hands cuffed and his vision wavering, he knew he needed to end this quickly.

Aramis kicked the man's knee hard and then stepped back. As the other man bent over to clutch at his injured limb, Aramis clasped one fist in the other hand and swung his arms like he was swinging a club. Throwing all his weight behind it, Aramis' fists crashed into the other man's face. The red-head's eyes rolled back into this head and he fell tumbled gracelessly the floor, out cold.

Breathing heavily, Aramis staggered backwards. He bent to grab the knife off the ground and had to catch himself as he nearly lost his balance. Aramis could feel a deep ache thrumming through his skull somewhere in the far distance. He knew his head was going to hurt like hell when the adrenaline wore off. Aramis wanted to bind the red-headed man before he woke and take him in for questioning, but he needed to find a way to uncuff his own hands first. With the knife held in front of him, Aramis yanked the door open, ready to deal with any guards that might have been left outside. What he found was the muzzle of a Beretta M9 pointed directly into his face. Luckily, the finger on the trigger belonged to someone that Aramis unquestioningly trusted with his life.

"Porthos?" Aramis couldn't hold back a shocked laugh as he dropped the blade he was holding. "What are you doing here?" He didn't know how Porthos managed it, but his friend had a delightful knack of showing up in the right place at the right time.

"Oh God," Porthos breathed as he immediately lowered the barrel of his weapon. He squinted against the lit backdrop. "Aramis?" Profound relief and disbelief mingled in his voice as he stepped forward, enveloping Aramis in a crushingly tight hug. "Still alive and kicking, eh?" His gruff voice was tight.

"Looks that way," Aramis agreed, returning the embrace just as fiercely before the big man released him.

Porthos pressed on his earpiece, activating the comm. "Athos, D'Artagnan. I've found him. We're down the east tunnel, about three hundred meters from the platform." Aramis couldn't hear what the response was, but a few seconds later, he heard Porthos say, "Bloody and bruised, but he's standing on his own two feet. For now."

Porthos turned his attention back to Aramis. "Where are you hurt? Pauline said you'd been attacked."

The half-Spaniard looked away at the sound of his old friend's name. He would have to deal with that particular issue later. At the moment, Aramis' most urgent order of business was finding the kidnapped children before they were moved.

"I'm fine," he reassured his brother. "Just some bumps."

Porthos frowned at the lie. "Didn't look like you were fine on the CCTV footage." The big man's fingertips pressed lightly under the small, deep knick on Aramis' cheek with a sympathetic wince. It was still leaking, but Aramis figured it wasn't anything more than a cosmetic wound. Porthos then grasped Aramis' chin and turned his head to the side, revealing dark streaks of crusted blood that had dried in large tracks down along the left side of his face, over his ear and into his beard. "This is definitely not 'just some bump'. This needs to be looked at."

"You're looking at it now," Aramis said testily. He pulled his head away from Porthos as his friend began to gently palpate his temple, probing at the very large, very tender bruise that peeked out from under his hair. He tried not to grimace as the movement jarred his pounding head. A flash of fear streaked across Porthos' face and Aramis knew what he was thinking about. "I'll be _fine_ ," he insisted again. "We have bigger problems at the moment."

Porthos looked like he was going to disagree before Aramis shoved his cuffed hands into his face and wiggled his fingers. "You wouldn't happen to have your magic kit on you, would you?"

With a roll of his eyes, Porthos used his picks to release Aramis' wrists from their confinement. "Thank you," Aramis said, rubbing gently at his abraded wrists. They had begun to swell a bit; he was going to need to put some ice on them if he wanted to be able to use his hands later. "The kids are being kidnapped and sold off. There was a man here that's behind most of it, I think. Or at least, he's up high enough on the food chain that he controls some of the operation."

"Lucien Grimaud. He was the same man that broke into your flat. He's been taking kids from all over the city," Porthos said.

"Yes! But how did you - oh." A look of amazement was quickly replaced with disappointed hurt.

"Pauline is under custody. She led you into an ambush, Aramis. I'm sorry," Porthos said, gripping his brother's shoulder gently in commiseration. Aramis nodded, glancing away. He figured as much.

"Also...you should also know that Sylvie reported Didier missing," Porthos continued reluctantly.

"Shit." Aramis blanched at the news, bending over at the waist and leaning his palms against his knees. He pressed his lips together, swallowing hard against the sickness rising up his throat. _I pushed the wrong person. I'm so sorry, Didi._

"I know. Desailly has his men are on it. They're scouring the city for him, Aramis. They'll find him." _Assuming he's still alive._ Aramis' brain filled in the unspoken caveat.

"So they finally decided to take Sylvie's reports seriously," Aramis muttered, his voice thick. Aramis inhaled deeply and forced himself to re-focus. "We need to find the children before they're moved." Aramis jerked his thumb back behind him. "I've got someone that might be able to give us some answers."

Porthos looked back at the room, his face twisting into a furious scowl. "Do you, now?" His hands clenched into fists and Aramis heard the loud crunch of his cracking knuckles. "I think I have some things I'd like to say to him first."

"No." Aramis flattened his hand against his friend's chest as Porthos made to push past him. "Not before he tells me what he knows. I just need a couple mintues with him."

Porthos hesitated. "Fine, but be quick. You know that Athos will want to hand him over to the police. Eventually."

"Oh, this won't take long at all." Aramis threw his friend a dark grin. "I can be very persuasive."

Aramis went back into the small utility room and found the red-haired man still on the floor. He was beginning to twitch, which Aramis took a sign of returning consciousness. Either that or the man was having some sort of seizure. Either way, Aramis found that he couldn't bring himself to care too much about it. He rolled his captive over and cuffed the man's hands behind his back, using the same pair that had just recently vacated his own wrists. He heard Porthos walk up behind him, and guessed that his friend was probably standing behind him in a wide-legged stance with his arms crossed, taking up what Aramis not-so-secretly referred to as his "bad cop" pose. Unfortunately for his captive, there would be no good cops in the scenario.

Leaving the man lying on his stomach, Aramis crouched by his head and gave him a rough pat on the cheek and then another when he didn't respond. The man on the floor gave a low groan as his eyes fluttered open.

"Welcome back," Aramis drawled. "Here's how this is going to go. You will tell me where the children are being held, and in return, I will refrain from beating your face in. How does that sound?"

"Go to hell," the man moaned. He first tested his hands and when he found them bound, he tried to roll himself over onto his back. Aramis grabbed a hold of his shoulder and slammed him back down into his prone position.

"No no, that's not how it works. You'll stay right where you are and do what I politely ask of you. My friend here will tell you that I'm not the most patient person, so I suggest you start talking now."

"I'm not telling you assholes anything," the man snarled, awkwardly glaring up Aramis.

With a put-upon sigh, Aramis took a hold of the man's right hand and grabbed the middle finger. With a vicious yank, Aramis dislocated the the middle joint, leaving the finger bent at a gruesome angle. The man under him screamed, legs thrashing wildly.

"That looks pretty nasty," Porthos muttered helpfully.

"It does, doesn't it?" Aramis agreed. He turned his attention back to the red-head on the floor. "Let's try this again, shall we? Tell me where the children are being held. Please keep in mind that you have nine other fingers I can play with."

"You're fucking insane! You can't do this to me!"

Aramis frowned. "Insulting me isn't going to get you anywhere. And I'm not quite sure what it is that you think I can't do, but if you're referring to this - " Aramis nonchalantly dislocated the middle finger on the left hand, "I believe I can."

He paused for a few seconds as the man howled in agony, allowing the pain of of the mangled fingers to sink in. In hindsight, Aramis thought that perhaps he should have cuffed the man's hands in front. The dislocations seemed to be even more traumatizing when the victim could see how terrible their hands looked. When it seemed like the man wouldn't cave, he took a hold of the man's right forefinger and began to pull.

"Okay, fine! Just stop, you crazy bastard." The redhead pressed his forehead into the cement floor, taking deep sobbing breaths as he tried to compose himself.

"Aramis? What is going on here?" Aramis turned his head when he heard Athos' inquiry from the doorway behind him. The team leader, with D'Artagnan in tow, shouldered past Porthos and knelt down next to Aramis. "Are you alright?" he asked gently, ignoring the distraught man on the floor for the moment. Something inside of Aramis softened at the concern in Athos' face, but he walled it off. There was no time for it now.

"Of course I am," Aramis replied, baring his teeth in a wide smile. "You arrived just in time. Our very cooperative detainee was about to provide some useful information about the location of the children that he's been trafficking." Aramis looked down at his shuddering captive and pulled again on the man's finger as encouragement. "Weren't you?"

"It's not me," the man whimpered. "I didn't take 'em."

Aramis bent close to the man's ear. "I don't care," he whispered. "Tell me where they are, or I will pull out every single joint in your body."

"Okay, okay! Ugh," the man grimaced. "Grimaud keeps them at an old abandoned slaughterhouse."

"Where is this place?"

"It's just on the outskirts of the city, to the north. Between here and Aubervilliers."

Aramis looked over at Athos and D'Artagnan, who were still on the floor next to him. The young Gascon was staring at the man's mangled hands with wide eyes. "I think I know of it. It's fairly close." He turned back to the man. "How many people does Grimaud have on site?"

"I don't know!"

"Give me your best guess."

"Four, maybe five? Like I said, I don't know."

"Good enough. Remember, if I find out that you've lied to me, I'm going to find you and break you." Aramis deftly relocated both horrifically bent fingers, and the man cried out again as the joints realigned. He gave the groaning man a friendly pat on the shoulder. "We'll get you some ice for that, and you'll be as good as new. See, that wasn't so hard, was it?"

Without waiting for a reply, Aramis quickly stood up and had to close his eyes as the world tilted around him. The change in elevation brought the blood rushing to his head, and it pulsed through his skull in thumping waves with each heartbeat. The sound of it filled his ears, washing out everything else. Pain and pressure radiated out from his temple at near unbearable levels. Aramis breathed in slowly and deeply, and sure enough, the agony eventually subsided to manageable amount.

"Aramis? Aramis!"

He opened his eyes to find Porthos' worried face right in front of his, his big hands clasped tightly around Aramis' shoulders. Aramis also felt one hand on his back, and another on his arm. Athos and D'Artagnan.

"I'm good," he said with a faint smile. He pretended not to hear Athos snort in disbelief. How fortunate was he to have not one, not two, but three brothers that would prop him up and support him? How lucky was he to have friends that would search for him as soon as he disappeared from their view? Once upon a time he hadn't been so blessed, and it made him feel that much more grateful for what he had. More than ever, Aramis needed those missing children to know that despite their lonely status, someone would always come looking for them.

His reverie was interrupted by Porthos' growl. "Like hell you are! We're going to the hospital now, so don't argue with me."

"No. We finally know where those children might be. We know where Mariam might be. I'm going to go get them, Porthos. I need to."

"What part of 'don't argue with me' did you not understand?"

Aramis shrugged. "All of it? Porthos, I swear that I will walk straight back out of the hospital if you drag me there, and I will be very, very angry about it. We are wasting time."

His brother scowled at him. Porthos knew very well that Aramis would make good on his promise, and Aramis would bet that Porthos was trying to figure out how much more damage he would do if he simply knocked Aramis out and carted him to the emergency room. Aramis appreciated the dilemma, but the clock was ticking. "Porthos!"

The big man gave a frustrated huff as he caved. "The minute you step sideways, you're done."

Aramis withheld a sigh of relief. "Fair enough."

Porthos and Athos picked Aramis' pliant captive off the ground and frog-marched him forward, out of the tunnels and into their SUV. Aramis climbed into the front next to Athos while D'Artagnan and Porthos flanked the red-head, each man holding onto one cuffed arm. They dropped him at the local precinct station, with D'Artagnan dutifully taking up the responsibility of handing their suspect over as the youngest and newest member of the team.

"Let Desailly know where we are. He'll probably want to be a part of this, and we might need his help," Athos instructed as the young Gascon got out of the vehicle.

"Yeah, at the very least he'll probably want to make sure we don't mess things up," Porthos muttered, poking Aramis in the back of the shoulder.

"I don't know what you're talking about, but it wasn't my fault," Aramis automatically deflected.

The three other men pulled away from the station and drove just beyond the Periphérique to the northeast. Although the small, working-class community was close to the city, it seemed like it was on a different planet. The squat concrete buildings and multitude of fast-food joints were a world away from the sparking architecture and glittering monuments of Paris. Although the place had a dangerous reputation, Aramis remembered it rather fondly. When he'd arrived here so long ago, penniliess and alone, it had been the first time in a long while he'd felt free.

As they went further out, buildings and traffic began to thin. The gently rolling landscape was beautiful, the but three men were too distracted to enjoy it. After another ten minutes or so, they turned further north, and eventually found themselves about half a kilometer from their destination, staring up at the abandoned building.

"Damn, that is _creepy,_ " Porthos muttered, surveying the sprawl of buildings that made up the decommissioned slaughterhouse. "If those kids weren't scarred before, I bet they are now."

Aramis had to agree. The building was a squat, sprawling structure that was tagged extensively in graffiti, rising up a patchy plot of land that was liberally scattered with debris. A sagging wire fence supported by rusting pipes looked as if it surrounded the entire site. Buildings that looked like staging areas or barns were connected to a large, central building that overshadowed the other structures. Darkened, barred windows stared at the the three men like eyes of animals long dead. Even under the bright sunshine, there was a sullen, forbidding air that clung to the place, discouraging any and all visitors.

"So how do we want to handle this?" Aramis asked as they hopped out of the vehicle. He went around to the trunk, quickly strapped on a spare bulletproof vest, loaded up on ammo and armed himself with a a couple of standard issue SIGs. They weren't the same as his own customized pieces, but they would have to do.

Athos considered the building as he leaned against the side of the car. "We'll have to split up. Aramis, you take the main building, Porthos you get those buildings to the north and I'll take the ones to the east. Move quickly, stay quiet and don't engage if you can avoid it. We're going to have to try and keep the element of surprise on our side."

Aramis nodded. There weren't any good vantage points from which he could survey the site, and he preferred to be on the ground for this anyway. "Let's go see what we find."

 _tbc_

* * *

 _Thanks for reading!_


	10. Chapter 10

"Aramis, I think your friend was lying about the number of men here." Athos' dry comment filled his ear.

The muffled explosions of gunshots sounded through Aramis' earwig even as a few staccato beats filled the air around him. He was currently hiding in a large, dense lattice of pipes, crouching behind one of the large, long sinks that were connected to the network. He was waiting for a pause in the gunfire that was long enough so he could get back out of the room without being shot full of holes. Or at least shot full of bruises. Kevlar was wonderful material, but getting hit still hurt like hell.

"Shocking, isn't it? You can't trust anyone these days," he whispered back. The red-headed man had definitely not been telling the truth about the number of men they'd be facing, but Aramis had assumed that would be the case. Along with the two men that followed him into the room in which he was currently trapped, he'd already taken down three others - quietly, as Athos had requested. It was a bit difficult to tell where his pursuers were in the shifting shadows of the room, but he thought that they might be trying to flank him.

"You think D'Artagnan will be mad that he missed out on the fun?" Porthos murmured. Another pop sounded through his ear piece.

"It depends on how deeply the two of you have corrupted him," came Athos' reply.

"Aw, come on now Athos. Don't pretend like you don't enjoy this," Porthos quietly ribbed their team leader. Aramis smiled but stayed quiet. Athos was a refined gentleman with what they assumed was a very posh background, but the three other men knew that he enjoyed the thrill of danger as much as they did.

Aramis was currently hiding in what appeared to be a large wash room. He tried not to think too hard about exactly what had been washed here when the meat-packing plant had been operational. He had just descended into the basement of the abandoned slaugherhouse when two men had crossed his path. With nowhere to go, Aramis had yanked at the first door he saw, which thankfully swung open under his touch. The two men had followed him in, and Aramis could hear their careful footsteps as they came closer to his hiding spot.

A small bit of light streamed in from the narrow windows that lined the eastern wall near the ceiling, enough so that at least one half of the large space was weakly illuminated. Breathing as quietly as he could, Aramis crept forward, stopping only when his foot hit something hard. Whatever it was skittered away a few feet, making a small clattering noise on the cement floor. Looking down, he discovered that the floor was littered with bones. He'd accidentally kicked something that looked like a dismembered hoof.

Holding his breath, Aramis stayed low and kept his eyes wide open. He assumed that the two men had heard the noise and would be converging on his position, and he wasn't disappointed. A figure moved cautiously towards him to his left, and Aramis released a slow breath, waiting for a clear line of sight. It was difficult to find one between all the pipes, but when one appeared, he took it without hesitation and pulled the trigger. The shadow immediately disappeared from sight, but there was no time to admire his handiwork. Aramis ducked down low silently raced for the next sink, being careful not to disturb any of the debris scattered on the ground. Loud, rapid footsteps told him where the other gunman was, and Aramis efficiently picked him off as well. He waited a few heartbeats and then knocked loudly on one of the metal pipes. As expected, there was no reaction. He cautiously made his way back into the aisle and after a few cautious steps, Aramis ran for the door.

The old slaughterhouse was an unsettling place. If possible, it was creepier on the inside than on the outside, and the basement was like a set from a horror film. It was dank and dark, with large metal pipes that lined the walls and doors that were placed sporadically along either side of the large, mostly open space. The ceiling was frequently interrupted by stained metal grating and large, open pipes that hung down almost to the floor. Several pieces of large, rusted equipment were placed throughout the space, standing silent like sleeping metal monsters. It was also one the few places that was not liberally painted over with colorful graffiti, as if the intrepid artists that had tagged the rest of the building had decided it wasn't worth subjecting themselves to the menacing gloom.

Aramis walked quickly but carefully, his eyes darting and alert as he swept his sidearm from side to side. He wound himself between all the machinery, carefully checking part that looked as if it might be hollow and large enough to hold a group of small children. It was frustratingly slow going as Aramis explored every possible inch of the large basement. The place was eerily quiet. The thought that perhaps they were too late and that the children were long gone crossed his mind, but he shook it away. He refused to entertain that possibility.

To make things worse, his headache was steadily growing more intense. What had been a controllable, pulsing pain behind his left eye had slowly leached out and was now encompassing the entire side of his face. He blinked a couple times, ineffectively trying to relieve the pressure that was ever so gradually building up in his head. _It's fine,_ he told himself. _Just need to find them and everything will be better._

He reached the other end of the basement without finding anything and climbed back up the stairs to the first floor. When he reached the top, he carefully peered out the doorway into the corridor, and what he saw made his breath catch in his throat. Three tall, shadowy figures were escorting four smaller shadows from one of the rooms off the hallway. These men were more heavily armed, with each one carrying what looked like military-grade assault rifles. They roughly shoved the children forward, moving away from Aramis' position. _Finally._

The relief that flooded through him was short-lived, however. Aramis quickly considered his choices and decided that they were all terrible. The corridor was long and narrow, and there was no way for Aramis to get between the guards and the children. The kids were simply too vulnerable and too exposed, and Aramis couldn't see a way to free them without subjecting them to inevitable gunfire. His best bet was likely to take down the three men as quickly as possible. Quietly checking his magazine to make sure he had enough ammo, Aramis silently gave chase, pressing himself closely against the wall, wanting to get as close as possible before taking his shots. There could be no room for error.

He fired three times in rapid successsion when he was less than fifteen meters away. Two men dropped to the ground, dead. The last man turned and as Aramis fired and instead of a kill shot, the bullet clipped his shoulder and buried itself into the concrete wall. His target cried out in alarm, screaming into a walkie talkie as he swung his rifle around at Aramis. Aramis calmly fired once more and this time, the man obligingly took the bullet and fell to the ground, dead.

"I've found them. Repeat, I've found them," Aramis reported as he ran towards the children. Some of the kids had begun to sob loudly, terrified and confused by the sudden, loud gunfire. They huddled together in one frightened mass, trying to hide behind one another. The largest figure gathered up the smaller ones in her arms and tried to hush them.

"Oh, thank God," came Porthos' reply.

"Roger that." Athos' response was more formal, but Aramis could hear the profound relief in his voice. "What's your position?"

"Near the north end of the main building. We're going to try and get out as quickly as possible."

"Porthos, where are you?"

"Close, I think. I'm heading over now."

"Keep you eyes open," Aramis warned. "I don't know whether they kept all the children together, there could be more."

"Porthos will provide you with support," Athos ordered. "I'm further away but I'll rendezvous as soon as I can. Head towards the vehicle when you get out." Their car was reinforced like a mini-fortress.

"Roger," Aramis said breathlessly, his mind already on the small group of kids. He holstered his weapon and slowed down as he approached them, not wanting to frighten them even more. He'd done his best to wipe away the dried blood smeared on face during the car ride to the site, but he guessed that he probably did not look his best.

"Please don't be scared," he said softly, his hands out in front of him in a gesture of peace. "My name is Aramis and I'm here to help you. I'm not going to hurt you, okay?"

"Monsieur Aramis?" The older girl that had comforted the frightened children stepped forward. "Is that you?" A thick accent accompanied the words.

"Mariam!" The teenaged girl threw herself at Aramis with a small cry as he crouched down and wrapped his arms around her tightly. The back of his eyes prickled with joy and relief.

"You found us," she whispered brokenly. "I didn't think anyone would look for us. Thank you. Thank you."

"Of course we looked for you," Aramis murmured. "We were all so worried. Rami misses you." He felt Mariam nod into his shoulder.

They held the embrace for a moment longer before the need to move overcame Aramis. He released the girl and took a hold of her shoulders, his eyes quickly surveying her for any signs of injury or maltreatment. "Are you alright? Are any of you hurt?"

Mariam shook her head and swiped at her eyes. She was a very lovely girl, with smooth olive skin, long dark hair and wide green eyes. It made Aramis sick to think of what her fate might have been had they arrived too late. She met Aramis' gaze with a brave, resolute one of her own. "No, Monsieur. The young ones are scared, and maybe a bit hungry."

Aramis smiled. "We'll make sure to take care of that once we get out here," he said. He sighed as he regarded the three other kids that stared back at him, less wary now that Mariam had recognized him and treated him as a friend.

"Is this everyone?" he asked Mariam.

The girl nodded. "There were more when I arrived. They are gone now."

Aramis bit back a curse as regret filled him, but there was nothing he could do about it at the moment.

There were two little girls and a boy, all of whom were younger than Mariam. One of the little girls looked as if she was no more than six or seven years old. They needed to move quickly and quietly, which was going to be difficult with young children in tow. Aramis stripped off his armored vest and draped it over Mariam's shoulders, fastening it tightly around her slight frame.

"Mariam, I'm going to need you to help me. I need you to hold onto these kids, okay? Keep them by your side as close as you can. We need to stay together, and we need to move fast." He hated to ask, but he needed someone else to help him herd his young charges. "Can you do that?"

The girl nodded firmly and Aramis marveled at her courage. He guessed she'd already experienced quite a bit of violence in her young life, as she seemed unfazed by the gunfire and dead bodies. Aramis lifted the youngest one into his arms. Much to Aramis' surprise, the frightened little girl, an adorable child with rich dark skin and incredibly large brown eyes, clutched tightly at his neck, nearly strangling him with the strength of her terror. Aramis placed a soothing hand on her short springy curls, his heart breaking as he witnessed her fear.

"I've got you," he said softly. "You're safe now." The little girl didn't respond, but Aramis thought he felt her relax a little bit. He carefully bent and picked one of the discarded assault rifles off the ground and nodded at Mariam. "Let's go."

Aramis had originally planned to take the kids out the nearest exit, which was behind them. The plan was rapidly undone when he heard the shouts and pounding footsteps of men approaching from a side corridor that met up with the main one just a few meters from the exit. Swearing under his breath, Aramis did a rapid about-turn.

"Go back! Run, run!" Aramis yanked Mariam back by the collar of the vest and herded the children in the direction from which they had just come. Gunfire chased them, and Aramis' heart nearly stopped when Mariam stumbled next to him with a yelp of pain.

"Shit! Mariam?" He roughly grabbed her by the arm before she could collapse to the ground and hauled her forward, desperately dragging her towards what he hoped would be safer spot.

"I'm okay," she gasped. The girl found her feet and kept going under her own power, matching Aramis' frantic pace.

With his hand free, Aramis took hold of the assault rifle dangling from his shoulder and fired blindly at the men following them. A scream of pain greeted his ears, indicating that he'd hit at least one of them. He was very aware of the fact that they were being corralled towards the center of the building, where escape would be very difficult.

They came across a long room off one of the split corridors. Rails ran across the tall ceiling, and hooks hung down from what appeared to be a conveyor belt. A second-story grated metal walkway extended down the entire length of one long wall, and more heavy machinery lined the floor beneath it. Aramis spotted a small opening cut into the back wall that was partially covered by two metal flaps. He led the children towards it and crouched down by Mariam, frantically searching for any sign of a wound.

"I'm okay," Mariam repeated, chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. "I think it hit the vest."

Aramis turned the girl around and found a deformed bullet flattened against the armor. There were no other holes and no blood. "Thank God," he murmured. He briefly closed his eyes and allowed himself to enjoy a brief moment of gratitude before his attention snapped back to the danger following them. Aramis shoved the children into the small alcove, praying that it would be enough to hide them. He tried to set down the child in his arms, but she clung fiercely to him, quietly whining "no no no" over and over into his ear. Mariam quickly pried open the girl's arms, murmuring something soothing in Arabic and forced the small child to release her hold on Aramis.

"Wait here and stay quiet," he instructed. "I'll be right back." Mariam nodded and positioned herself in front of the other three kids.

Aramis quietly sprinted away to cut off their pursuers. Adrenaline surged through him, gifting extra speed to his steps and pushing back the pain that made his head feel like a pressure cooker. He came face to face with two of the men as he turned a corner. Aramis jumped back to safety just as a rain of bullets hit the wall by his head and peppered his face with stone chips. He could hear the traffickers shouting instructions to converge on their position. Biting back a curse, Aramis waited for a pause in the gunfire before leaping out into the open, greeting the men with his own spray of bullets. Aramis heard one of the men scream as he ducked low and ran forward. Shots fired at another figure rewarded him with another grunt.

After ensuring the men were dead and whispering a small prayer for their immortal souls, Aramis raced back to where he had hidden the children. Something felt off, as though he was in the wrong place. Heart pounding loudly in his ears, Aramis retraced his steps and breathed a sigh of relief when he found the area quiet. He was about to call out to Mariam when something made him pause. Up on the walkway, a dark shadow stepped out deliberately, gun in hand. He raised his weapon and pointed it directly at Aramis, who immediately ducked between two pieces of equipment with a curse. It was Grimaud.

"I see you're still not dead," the other man called out flatly. "I suppose that means I get the satisfaction of finally killing you myself."

"Better men than you have tried," Aramis said lightly, his gaze flicking about as he tried to find a better vantage point. He was disappointed to find that there was none. "So good luck with that."

"I warned you to leave it alone," Grimaud said furiously. "Now, you've not only thrown away your own life, you've wasted the lives of my merchandise and cost me a fair amount of leverage. A life of servitude would have been no worse than the things they were running away from."

Aramis growled, sickened by Grimaud's words. "It's not servitude, it's slavery. They're not trinkets to be bought and sold," he ground out between gritted teeth. "They are _children_ , with every right to live free lives no matter how difficult those lives might be." He peered out from behind a large stack of barrels and was met by couple of bullets that slammed into the metal containers right by his head. Aramis sucked in a deep, quiet breath. He needed to move, needed something to change. Grimaud held the better, more secure position, and Aramis was either going to have to do something very bold or very stupid in order to shift the situation in his favor.

The decision was made for him when he saw a little face peek out from the alcove. His stomach sinking with dread, Aramis watched as the little girl that had latched onto him so desperately ran out of her hiding spot, dashing towards him as she sobbed with fright. He saw Mariam lean forward from between the two metal flaps, a horrified look her face as she reached towards the child, grasping at empty air as she tried and failed to haul the girl back to safety. A quick glance towards the walkway showed Grimaud shifting his aim from Aramis' general direction towards the terrified little girl.

Aramis' eyes widened as time seemed to slow. His brain automatically realized he didn't have a clean shot at Grimaud even as he burst from his hiding spot and darted out to meet the child. He raised his rifle and took one anyway, buying himself a few precious seconds with a sharp crack of gunfire that momentarily pressed Grimaud back. Aramis bent as he slid to a stop and roughly scooped up the child. Placing himself between the girl and Grimaud, Aramis ran for cover as bullets flew, firing wildly up at the walkway.

The shot that struck him felt like a sledgehammer blow across his back. Aramis stumbled from the force of it but kept his feet and maintained a tight grip on the child in his arms. Fear for the little girl's safety and that of the other children flooded through him as he skidded behind a large pipe from rose from floor to ceiling. Pressing himself against it, he glanced back, expecting to see Grimaud leaning over the railing, eager to loose another hail of bullets. He instead found empty space. The man had disappeared.

Aramis bit back a groan as he crouched, setting the little girl down. "Are you hurt?" he asked breathlessly as he carefully pat at her. The girl mutely shook her head, eyes wet with tears. The front of Aramis' black shirt was dry, assuring him that his body had done its job in protecting the child from harm. The back, however, was a different story. The thin cloth was soaking through quickly. Too quickly.

There was no pain, at least not yet. His nerve endings were still numb from the shock of the wound. Aramis knew from experience, however, that it wouldn't last and he knew that he needed to move while he still could. He took the girl by the hand cautiously led her forward, his senses hyper-alert for any more signs of danger.

"Mariam? Are you alright?"

The teenager crawled out from the alcove, the other two children in tow. "We are fine," she whispered. "Monsieur Aramis, I'm sorry, I am so sorry. It was my fault, she got away from me, I couldn't stop her and - "

Aramis lay a gentle hand on Mariam's hair in a fond gesture and hushed her. "Mariam, stop. It's not your fault," he said soothingly. "You are an incredibly brave young lady and you're doing very, very well."

The girl looked away, blinking back the moisture that had gathered at the corners of her eyes. Aramis could tell that she was starting to break down from the stress of her experience, and he couldn't blame her. "My friends are here, and they're going to find us, but I need your help until they do. You have to be strong for a little while longer, okay? "

Mariam nodded. "I can be strong."

"Good. Let's get out of here."

They were on the move again. Their quest for escape remained the same but Aramis' goals were now drastically different than they were just five minutes ago. All he needed to do was to hang on, to protect them, until Porthos or Athos found them. After that...he didn't presume to guess.

A pit of fire was steadily building in his lower right back, and each step he took stoked the flames until he found himself at the mercy of a raging inferno. The adrenaline that had been insulating him crumbled under the onslaught of combined agony between the gunshot wound and the pain in his head. He pressed a hand against his back to try and stem the flow of blood but it was a futile effort. It pulsed out unrelentingly with every beat of his heart and he simply could not stop it. Aramis had to release the meager pressure he'd placed on the wound in order to brace himself against the wall when he faltered once, then twice. Mariam threw worried glances in his direction and Aramis tried to give her a reassuring smile. He wasn't sure he succeeded.

Blinking heavily, Aramis found himself staring up at an faded exit sign when he heard shouts from behind them. _No, not now, not when we're so close!_ He shoved roughly at the children, urging them forward. The youngest girl clung to his leg, refusing to leave, and Aramis nearly cried with frustration. He needed them to _go._

Gunfire broke out again and Aramis whipped his rifle around, grimacing as the motion pulled harshly at his injured back. But then he heard something unexpected. There were screams of confusion and shock behind him, and the voice that joined the cacophony made him sag with relief.

"Aramis? That you?" Porthos' voice sounded through his earpiece, but he also heard it echoing down the hallway. It created an odd stereo effect.

"Porthos," he breathed. "You made it."

Aramis watched as the big man charged towards them, and he gestured at Mariam, urging her to come closer. "Mariam, that's my friend Porthos. He's going to help us. He'll get you out of here."

Her wide green eyes were alarmed. "What about you?"

He turned away without answering. Aramis watched as his brother approached them. Porthos' frown grew deeper as he came closer.

"Aramis? What's going on?" Rough anxiety strummed through Porthos' demand, his voice stretched taut with dread even as he reached for Aramis and clasped his shoulders. "What's wrong?"

"Porthos. I need to you get these kids out of here," Aramis replied, his voice low and urgent.

The big man caught on immediately, much to Aramis' dismay. " _We_ can get them out, 'Mis. I'm not leaving you behind."

Aramis swallowed hard, fighting to keep the pain at bay. It was threatening to devour him, and the effort it took to beat it back was exhausting. He started to shiver as an inexorable chill crept out from his core. "You'll have to, brother," Aramis murmured as he rested his head against the wall. "I'll just slow you down."

Porthos' face darkened as he gave the half-Spaniard a furious glare. "Absolutely not. I'll carry you if I have to."

Aramis' expression softened. "I know you would. But it'll take too long, and I'm not going to let you risk your life or these kids' lives. You need to go. Now."

"But you'll risk your own? This is ridiculous, you're coming with us."

"No." Aramis shook his head. His ears picked up on the sound of distant footsteps and he pushed weakly at the big man. "You need to go, Porthos. Our only priority is to get these children to safety. I'll cover your exit." Aramis gave the big man a pleading look, putting all his conviction behind it. "Please, Porthos. _Please_. I'm begging you. Just get them to safety."

Porthos' face twisted with disgust and sorrow as he quickly weighed his options and Aramis could see the moment he gave in. Porthos pointed a trembling finger in his face. "When we get through this, you and I are going to have a little talk about your stubborn foolishness."

The corners of Aramis' lips lifted with affectionate amusement. "If you insist."

"I'm coming back for you."

Aramis nodded wearily. He expected no less.

With one last aggrieved look, Porthos squeezed Aramis' shoulders before tearing himself away. He tugged at the little girl who was still attached to Aramis' leg, observing their conversation with curiosity. She screamed as Porthos brusquely yanked her away, his worry and haste leaving no time for patient coaxing. Aramis tried to comfort her one last time as she reached for him.

"It's going to be okay, little one. Porthos will keep you safe."

He watched for a second or two as Porthos led the children away. Mariam glanced back at him as she ran. Porthos did not. Before they could disappear from view, Aramis shakily pushed himself away from the wall and staggered after them, determined to cover their backs for as long as he could.

He didn't have to wait long for his resolve to be tested as more men came running after them. When he pulled the rifle's trigger, it clicked on empty. He allowed the useless weapon to drop carelessly onto the floor and drew his pistols instead. Despite the fact that his vision was blurring badly and his weakened limbs were shaking from cold and fatigue, everything seemed to steady and crystalize as he took aim. Training took over and the guns in his hands fired in tandem, never failing in their duty. When the last man was dead, Aramis found himself outlined by bullet holes that had been punched into the concrete behind him. Another shot had found its way to him, grazing his arm and leaving behind a bloody gash. As far as Aramis was concerned, it was a mere drop in the ocean.

When his legs finally decided they couldn't support him anymore, he collapsed heavily against the wall and slid down, closing his eyes against the sickening wave of dizziness that washed over him. He thought he could hear Athos and Porthos yelling at each other over the comms, but the only thing that really registered was the flow of their familiar voices. D'Artagnan's voice joined the mix and Aramis smiled faintly. _Success._

The pain, which had seemed so inescapable just a moments ago, was slowly starting to recede, pulling its fiery claws out of his flesh and slinking back into the depths. The cold that replaced it was achingly deep, and just as inescapable. Aramis found himself floating in detached silence as the voices in his ear began to fade and oblivion beckoned. He was just so tired. Without the strength deny the darkness seeping around the edges of his vision, Aramis gave into it, and allowed himself to tumble into the soft, welcoming void.

 _tbc_

* * *

 _Aramis is really not having a good day. Thanks for reading!_


	11. Chapter 11

"Aramis, that you?" Porthos' voice revereberated loudly though Athos' ear.

"Porthos," he heard Aramis respond. "You made it." A part of Athos joined Aramis in breathing a sigh of relief. While he had the utmost faith in each of his brothers' skills and firmly believed Aramis would do whatever it took achieve their objectives, Athos felt much better knowing that Porthos would be there to watch his back. Aramis could be quite...single-minded at times.

The reprieve proved to be extremely short-lived, however, as the conversation that followed wiped out whatever peace of mind Athos had bought. He was currently being stalked by two men that appeared intent on killing him, and the silence that he was compelled to maintain was maddening. He required more information. His pressing need forced his hand, and Athos stepped out into the open, briefly making a target of himself in a move that was much more Aramis' style than his own. Taking refuge first behind a tipped cabinet and then wheeled tub, Athos efficiently removed the two men from his path and then took off running.

"I need an update," he barked at his teammates. "What's the situation?"

"I'm moving the children out," Porthos said. His voice sounded off.

"Where are you?"

"Heading towards an exit on the eastern side of the building, first floor. We're almost there."

"Aramis?" Athos asked. There was a long silence when the man failed to respond. "Porthos? Where's Aramis?"

"He's still inside. You need to get to him, Athos, as fast as you can."

Athos frowned. "Why isn't he with you? Are his comms off?"

"I had to leave him behind." Athos finally recognized what he as hearing in Porthos' voice. It was anguish. And rage.

"Shit." Athos rarely swore, but sometimes nothing else would do. "How bad?"

"I don't know. I couldn't tell, but I think it was bad, Athos. Very bad."

Athos rushed towards the exit and sprinted towards the main building, his legs pumping and his heart pounding with something more than just exertion.

"Where is he, Porthos? I need a location."

One half of his mind absorbed the directions that Porthos gave him while the other half spun in circles, dizzy from the endless array of nightmare scenarios that it conjured up. He was about to send further instructions when another voice popped up in his ear.

"D'Artagnan reporting in. I've got Desailly and his men with me. What do you need?"

 _Finally,_ Athos thought. "Tell me you called in some buses," he demanded.

"I did, just in case. They're on their way," D'Artagnan replied. There was a short pause. "Do we need them?"

"I'm about to find out."

As Athos sprinted towards the area Porthos had last seen Aramis, he noted the dead bodies strewn across the floor. His brother's handiwork, no doubt. Sensing that he was getting closer, Athos slowed his pace.

"Aramis? Answer me," he called out, hoping against hope that his friend would be able to respond. "Aramis?"

Despite the intensity of his search, he nearly missed Aramis, assuming that he was simply another enemy corpse half-hidden in the shadows. As he came closer, Athos recognized the clothes and the dark, wavy hair. "No," Athos whispered, trying to deny what his eyes were telling him. A vice clamped painfully around his heart. " _No_."

Aramis was propped against the base of a wall, his long legs bent awkwardly in front of him and his chin resting against his chest. A dark smear painted the gray cement, rising up behind his lifeless figure like a grisly headstone. His hands were still loosely curled around his guns, one of which rested at the edge of a viscous puddle on the floor. Athos' stomach turned sour when he realized it was all blood. He rushed towards his fallen brother, his own blood pounding in his ears as his fear ratcheted to excruciating levels.

"Aramis? Can you hear me?" Athos crouched in front of him, gently brushing Aramis' hair off his forehead and pushing his head back. Aramis' relaxed face was white as snow; the stark contrast between his ashen skin and his dark hair was terribly startling. Athos pressed shaking fingers against his friend's throat and held his breath as he willed Aramis' heart to beat, to show him some sign of life. His friend's flesh was cool and clammy, and Athos tried to suppress the thought that it was like touching a dead man. _There. There._ The fluttering under his fingers was so faint and rapid that Athos wasn't sure if it was real, but for him, it was enough. The relief was so strong it made him feel lightheaded.

"Aramis is down, I repeat, he's down. I need a medic immediately _._ "

"Is he...?" Porthos' question trailed off, as if he couldn't bear to finish it.

"He's alive." _For now. Just barely._

"Hold tight. We're already on our way."

Feather-light puffs of air confirmed that Aramis also still breathed. Athos began to lightly pat at his unconscious friend, trying to figure out where the wound was. When his hands brushed against Aramis' back, Athos cursed again. The material of the black shirt was absolutely sodden. Athos pulled away and stared at the crimson smudges that coated his palm. There was so much blood. Athos couldn't quite understand how it possible for someone to lose so much and still live.

He gathered his brother's slack form into his arms and carefully laid him on the ground, wishing he had something place on top of the dirty, cold floor. Aramis' hold on life was so tenuous that it made Athos nervous to move him, but he needed to see where the wound was and stop the bleeding. Looking at the amount that already painted the area, it seemed laughable to think that his efforts would make a difference, but Athos was determined to do whatever he could. He pushed up the saturated shirt and found a small puncture staring up at him from between Aramis' lower ribs. Bright red liquid still flowed sluggishly from the half-clotted wound, trickling over pale, stained skin. Athos quickly yanked off his vest and pulled off his outer shirt, wadded it up tightly and pressed it firmly against his brother's back, hiding the menacing injury from sight. There was no reaction from Aramis, just utter stillness.

"Hold on, Aramis. Just hold on," Athos murmured, over and over. Perhaps if he repeated himself enough times, Aramis would actually listen to him. It would be a first.

"Athos?" He looked up at the sound of his name and same Porthos and three paramedics running towards them, carrying a backboard and bulky, black bags. Athos could see the fear and guilt written all over Porthos' face as they approached.

"Oh God." Porthos stared hopelessly at the carnage around them as he knelt down beside Athos, fists clenched at his sides. "Is that all his?"

Athos nodded. The three paramedics, two men and a woman, crouched down on either side of Aramis' body. One of the male paramedics, an unassuming looking man with a calm, quiet demeanor, spoke to him even as he shouldered Athos out of the way. Athos had to resist the strong urge to punch the man.

"My name is Jean, these are my partners Léa and Henri. I need you to give us some space, okay? We'll do everything we can to help your friend."

"His name is Aramis," Athos said numbly. For some reason, he thought it was important that they knew his name. Jean nodded in understanding before returning his attention to the wounded man now under his care. Athos gracelessly shuffled backwards until his back hit the wall, right next to where he had found his brother. Porthos joined him and they watched in silence as the paramedics worked quickly and efficiently, briskly strapping on a bagged mask and replacing Athos' shirt with a hemostatic dressing. Léa rhythmically squeezed the bag as they exchanged information in rapid-fire bursts. The words washed over Athos in an incomprehensible wave. Throughout it all, Aramis made no sound, no movement. The three paramedics carefully rolled him onto the board and lifted him as soon as they ensured he was stable. The entire episode took no longer than three or four minutes. To Athos, it seemed to take an eternity.

Porthos heaved himself to his feet and helped the three paramedics carry their unresponsive brother out and into a waiting ambulance. Athos followed, his gaze firmly glued to Aramis' peaceful, masked face. Porthos jumped into the back of the bus, his eyes briefly meeting Athos'. Athos nodded at him, silently charging Porthos to watch over Aramis until he and D'Artagnan could join the vigil. The doors slammed shut, cutting both Porthos and Aramis from his view, and the ambulance sped away, sirens wailing.

"Athos? Athos, what's going on? What happened?"

D'Artagnan came up to him, eyes wide with confusion and worry. Athos thought that the Gascon looked incredibly young at that moment. He opened his mouth, but then realized that he had no idea what he wanted to say. Should he tell D'Artagnan that Aramis had finally found the children? That he had been shot while rescuing them? That he had looked dead when Athos had found him? Should he tell D'Artagnan that there was a very real possibility he may lose one of his brothers today?

Grief suddenly overwhelmed Athos and he had to turn away for a moment. He bent over with his hands on his knees, trying to blink away the dry burning in his eyes. He felt D'Artagnan lay a tentative hand on his shoulder, offering what comfort he could. Athos reached up and tightly grasped the young Gascon's hand. He was grateful for the support of his friend, his brother. After what happened with Anne, Athos didn't think he'd ever be able to trust anyone, to lean on anyone ever again. He'd never been more pleased to be completely wrong.

Taking a deep breath, Athos composed himself and straightened up. "Aramis was wounded. I'm not certain as to exactly what happened, but I'm assuming he was shot trying to get the kids to safety."

"Oh my God," D'Artagnan breathed. A deep furrow appeared between his brows. "Is he...will he be okay?"

"I don't know." Athos began to walk towards their vehicle, his strides long and determined. D'Artagnan scrambled to follow him.

"What do you mean you don't know? Is he going to live?"

"I don't know."

"Oh." D'Artagnan's steps faltered before he caught back up with Athos. "'Where are you going?"

"Hospital. Call Porthos, find out which one they're going to."

"I'm coming with you," D'Artagnan said as he pulled his phone out.

"I know. Get in the car."

Athos was about to get behind the driver's seat of the vehicle when Desailly, their police liason, flagged him down. He had a girl with him. She was wrapped in a light blanket, her dazed face smudged with dirt and her hair tangled. Athos got into the car anyway, slammed the door shut and turned on the engine. He was fully prepared to ignore the lieutenant and pull away when Desailly knocked on the window, demanding attention.

"I don't have time for this right now," Athos coldly said by way of greeting as he rolled down the glass. He generally liked the man and found him to be a competent, efficient officer of the law, but at the moment he was keeping Athos from where he needed to be, which made him the enemy.

Desailly nodded, not offended at all. He was a tall, lanky man with mousy brown hair and sharp, hawk-like features. "This will only take a minute. This is Mariam, she wanted speak with you." He brought the teenager around to stand in front of him.

Athos leaned forward and peered carefully at the girl. The young lady stared back at him. "Monsieur de la Fère?"

"Athos."

"You are one of Monsieur Aramis' friends, yes?" Athos nodded. "You came to help us. Thank you, sir. Thank you," she repeated, her voice breaking. "I don't...I don't know what happened to Monsieur Aramis, but I'm so sorry." Her eyes welled up with tears and they streamed down her face as her expression crumpled. It took a long, precious moment for Mariam to gather herself. "My prayers are with him."

Athos' frigid expression warmed up a fraction. "He'll appreciate that," he said. He recognized the name - this was the girl that Aramis had been so concerned about.

Desailly gently pulled Mariam back and rapped his knuckles against the door. "Go. We have matters we need to discuss, but it can wait."

Athos didn't need any more encouragement. He stomped on the accelerator and peeled away as D'Artagnan gave him directions towards the nearest hospital.

"He's going to be fine. It's Aramis, he's always fine," D'Artagnan muttered quietly from the passenger seat, almost as if he was talking to himself. He looked at Athos. "Remember when we were escorting the Bourbons during that riot and we thought Aramis had blown himself up?"

Athos did remember. They could laugh about it now, but at the time, all Athos had felt was heart-wrenching terror. It had been quickly followed by outrage when he learned that the reckless, courageous fool had come through the event without a scratch.

"Or remember when we were dealing with that hostage situation and he got pushed out a fourth-story window? If it was anyone else, they would have landed splat on the sidewalk, but not Aramis. Of course he manages to land on a grocer's awning. He's seriously the luckiest person I've ever met. He's going to be fine."

Athos remembered that one too. While Aramis had survived that episode as well, he had not come through it unscathed. After the dust from that particular snafu had settled, they'd discovered Aramis had suffered a multitude of lacerations from landing on broken glass. It had been a miracle that the man hadn't managed to accidentally sever something important.

As much as Athos wished he could share D'Artagnan's determined optimism, he just couldn't. D'Artagnan hadn't seen the state Aramis had been in before he'd been hauled away by the ambulance; Athos had. Aramis' colorless, lifeless ghost haunted him even now, and he already knew that it would give him nightmares for a long time to come.

When they reached the hospital, Athos hurriedly parked the vehicle in an empty spot along the curb, not caring whether it was a legal parking space or not. Before they got out, Athos grabbed the younger man by the arm.

"D'Artagnan. I don't want to discourage you from hoping for the best, but you need to understand that this time is not like the others. Aramis was not in good shape, and you need to ready yourself for all possible outcomes."

The Gascon jerked his limb from Athos' tight grip. "I'm not giving up on him," he said, chin jutting out stubbornly.

Athos sighed. "No one is giving up on him. Like you said, if anyone can pull through, it's Aramis. I just don't want you to be caught unprepared."

D'Artagnan frowned at him. "I already know what it's like to be blindsided by the death of someone I love," he said quietly. "But it's not going to happen this time, because Aramis is going to make it." With that, D'Artagnan exited the vehicle and made his way to the entrance of the trauma center. Athos sat in his seat for another beat before getting out. _Of course he's going to make it,_ Athos thought. _Aramis will be just fine and we'll go home, have a glass of wine and he'll tease me for worrying too much._

It was a beautiful fantasy. Athos wished he could believe it.

 _tbc_

* * *

 _No one is having a good day, really. Thanks for reading!_


	12. Chapter 12

Aramis' ICU nurse gave Porthos a gentle pat on the back as she came around to check on her patient, startling him out of his exhausted trance. She was a plump, older woman named Juliette, and she checked Aramis' lines and vitals with gentle efficiency and brisk competence. Juliette looked like everyone's favorite doting grandmother, but she brooked absolutely no nonsense when it came to guarding the health of her patient. She would firmly escort Porthos out of the room when visiting hours were over, but then would greet him with an encouraging smile when he returned from exile. Porthos thought that Aramis would have been absolutely charmed by her.

"How is he?" Porthos asked.

"Doing as well as can be expected," Juliette said quietly, squinting at the monitors and scribbling something onto a chart. "He's stablizing, which is very good news."

Porthos nodded his thanks as the nurse adjusted one of the numerous bags of liquid connected to Aramis and then left them alone, giving Porthos another little squeeze on the shoulder as she left.

"I know it doesn't look like it, but he's fighting," she reassured him. "Just be patient with him."

"I will," Porthos said. He'd been here before, he knew what to expect.

Once Juliette left, Porthos leaned forward against the bed and delicately took Aramis' hand into his own, being careful not to dislodge the pulse-ox or disturb any of the lines that were inserted into his arm. Porthos lightly brushed his thumb over Aramis' knuckles, noting that the skin warming up, which was a relief.

He looked up at his silent brother, his eyes raking over the motionless form for the hundreth time, hoping for signs of improvement and worrying about signs of decline. Aramis' face was still pale, but it had lost the frightening gray cast that had been there during the grim ride to the hospital. Despite Porthos' gentle touch, Aramis' eyes remained closed, as they had for the last twenty-four hours. Twenty-four long, endless hours, and his brother still showed no intention of waking up.

"I thought you promised to never do this again, eh?" There was no response, not that Porthos was really expecting one. He swallowed hard, trying not to drown in the guilt that had been threatening to overwhelm him since he'd stumbled upon Aramis and the kidnapped children. Since he'd run for safety and had left his brother behind, bleeding and dying.

 _It's not your fault, you big idiot._ Porthos could almost hear Aramis' voice in his ear and knew exactly what he would say. _You did exactly what you had to, what I asked you to do. No regrets._

Except Porthos did regret it. He had known the minute he'd laid eyes on Aramis that something was wrong. The half-Spaniard had been slouched against the wall, his chest heaving as if he'd run a marathon. It had been difficult to tell in the dim, watery light, but Porthos remembered that Aramis had looked ashen even then, the color slowly leaching out of his normally tawny complexion. He'd _known_ , and had still left his brother behind. He was incensed, both with himself for caving so easily, and with Aramis, for being...Aramis. And when Porthos had returned to find Athos bent over his unmoving, blood-soaked body, the air had rushed from his lungs and he couldn't breathe. It was the spectre of the former soldier's final mission come back to haunt them.

The ambulance ride had nearly killed them both. Despite the intense care that the paramedics were administering, Aramis' heart had failed. His own heart had stuttered painfully in his chest as he watched the medics work frantically to bring the dead man back to life. It had likely taken less than a minute, but to Porthos, the horrifying moment seemed to stretch on forever, as if he'd been caught in some sort of time loop that kept replaying his worst nightmare. Aramis' heart had found its rhythm again as they reached the emergency room and he'd been immediately whisked away by the medical staff, leaving Porthos alone and bewildered.

Porthos had eventually been joined by Athos and D'Artagnan, and the three of them waited in nervous, loaded silence. It was hours before one of the trauma surgeons came out to give them news, and to Porthos' ears, it had sounded dire. Hypovolemic shock. Two broken ribs. A fragmented bullet that had turned into shards of shrapnel, spraying through his organs. Liver damage. Nicked hepatic artery. Lacerated kidney. Hairline skull fracture. Porthos had hard time resisting the urge to vomit as the laundry list went on.

"We've repaired what we can, the rest will have to heal on its own. We won't know what the full extent of the damage is until he wakes up," the doctor had said. Porthos had swallowed hard. He remembered being told the same thing the last time, and when Aramis had awoken, it had taken a long, long time before he was himself again.

"I know you don't mean to get yourself into so much trouble, but damn it, 'Mis. I don't...I don't know if I can go through this again. Do you know how hard it is to see you like this?" Porthos reached up and smoothed back his brother's hair, cautiously avoiding the stitches that held together the edges of the cut along his temple. They'd thankfully left his hair alone. Despite Aramis' history with traumatic brain injuries, the skull fracture hadn't been severe enough to warrant any sort of surgical intervention, especially in his fragile state. "Ah, don't listen to me," Porthos murmured, immediately feeling like a selfish fool. "You just focus on getting better."

He sat like that for a while longer, keeping his hands on Aramis' own to let his brother know that someone was with him, waiting for him to open his eyes. Porthos jumped when Athos came in and touched his shoulder.

"We have a problem," Athos said grimly.

 _Because we don't have enough already?_ "What is it now?"

"Grimaud wasn't amongst the bodies that were collected and identified," Athos informed him.

"Shit." Porthos turned to look at Athos, who was staring at Aramis rather than at him. From Pauline's accounts, Grimaud was a vindictive man with Machiavellian tendencies. It did not bode well for anyone that crossed him.

"Indeed. There's an APB out on him. Desailly's already put extra patrols near Sylvie's place for protection."

"And here?" Not that it would be needed. Porthos fully planned on wrecking anyone that even thought about coming for Aramis.

Athos nodded, and the look of stern determination on his face said that he felt the same way as Porthos. Grimaud had taken too much from them already. "I can't imagine he'd be stupid enough to try anything now, but there are extra guards posted at the hospital entrances. Security has been informed to be on the lookout."

"Good," Porthos said. He cracked his knuckles. A tiny part of him wanted Grimaud to try something. He needed some way to relieve his stress.

"D'Artagnan's waiting outside. Why don't you go home and get some rest?"

"No." The word came out reflexively. He wasn't going anywhere until Aramis woke up.

"Porthos. You know what he would say." Athos tilted his head in Aramis' direction.

"Yeah well, until he's awake to tell me himself, I'm staying." Porthos stubbornly folded his arms in an overt challenge. Unfortunately for Porthos, Athos had plenty of experience dealing with such challenges.

"You've been up for almost forty-eight hours," he said reasonably. "I'll make it an order if I have to. You're just going to worry Aramis if you end up collapsing yourself."

The big man glared at his team leader. Athos stared right back, implacable and calm. They glowered at each other for a long, tense moment.

 _Go home, Porthos._ Aramis' voice echoed in his ear again. _You're not going to be able to protect anyone if you doze off in the middle of a fight. Besides, you could really use a shower. No offense, mon ami, but you're starting to get a little ripe._

Porthos let out an insulted huff before realizing that he was getting affronted at his own thoughts. He pointed a finger at Athos. "You call me the second there's any change. Even if it's just a small blip on one of these," Porthos waved at the monitors surrounding his brother, "I want to know about it."

Athos nodded in agreement. "You'll be the first," he said.

Turning over the vigil was incredibly difficult for Porthos even though he knew that Athos and D'Artagnan would be just as dedicated to Aramis' health and safety. He'd always been the one to watch over Aramis, from the very first moment they'd met. It was hard to let that go. Taking one long, last look at his unconscious brother, the big man sighed. "I'm not leaving you, 'Mis, okay? I'll be right back. I promise."

* * *

Athos leaned against the hard plastic chair back, trying to ease the stiffness in his muscles. He and D'Artagnan were amongst a few other family members in the waiting area, and he was currently the only one that was awake. D'Artagnan, despite his best intentions, had dozed off a few hours after being kicked out of Aramis' ICU room at the end of visiting hours. Athos rolled his neck and sucked in a deep breath. He envied the young Gascon's ability to sleep anywhere at anytime, no matter how uncomfortable the surroundings.

Blinking gritty eyes, Athos glanced at his watch. It was only two in the morning. It would be another six hours before they'd be let back in to sit at their brother's side. Athos supposed that the reasonable thing to do would be to go home, sleep and come back later in the morning, but it was no more than an idle, passing thought. He needed to be here. The very fact that Aramis was still clinging to life was enough to keep him planted in his seat.

A text to his phone caught his attention and Athos glanced at it and sighed. It was from Desailly's office informing him that Didier, the boy from Sylvie's shelter, had been found beaten and hidden behind a dumpster. He had been hospitalized, but was thankfully still alive. Athos had no doubt who was responsible for the boy's injuries and deeply regretted that Didier had gotten caught up in Grimaud's amoral whirlwind because of his desire to help. He was also relieved that he wouldn't have to tell Aramis that the boy was dead when he woke up. If he woke up.

About an hour later, a sudden burst of activity from the nurses' station startled Athos from his mindless phone scrolling. He watched with confusion as one of the night nurses and the physician on call rushed towards the room in which Aramis lay. The glass wall facing the nurses' station was curtained off and the door was closed. As it swung open, Athos could hear the squeal of alarms and his chest tightened. _Please no,_ he thought pleadingly. _You can't take him._ He wasn't quite sure who he was addressing. Aramis' God, perhaps.

"D'Artagnan." Athos tapped the younger man's knee. He grabbed the knee and shook it when the Gascon kept snoring on. "D'Artagnan, wake up."

Athos didn't know if it was the jostling or the urgency of his tone that cut through D'Artagnan's slumber, but the young man woke with a start.

"What?" He blinked rapidly he tried to bring his sleepy mind to heel. "What is it? Aramis?"

"I don't know." Feeling jittery, Athos lurched out of his chair and made his way for the closed-off room. He pressed himself against the transparent wall, trying to see if he could catch a glimpse of what was happening inside. When he reached for the door handle, he heard a voice call out to him.

"Sir? Sir! You are not authorized to go in there!" A nurse came running up to him and blocked his entry.

"Something's happening," Athos said hoarsely. "I need to know. Now."

D'Artagnan came and stood by him, also pressing his face against the glass. "What's happening with Aramis? Is something wrong?"

"The doctor will inform you if there's news concerning your family member," the nurse said calmly. She did not seem intimidated by Athos' scowl. "We'll let you know as soon as he comes out. For now, I'm going to have to ask you to wait." The unspoken threat that she would call security if Athos did not comply hung in the air.

Inhaling deeply, Athos glared once more at the nurse went back to the waiting area with D'Artagnan trailing behind him. Athos leaned against the wall, too agitated to sit back down again. Before too long, a young, somber-looking man draped in a long white coat came back out Aramis' room. He headed towards the two men, his face blank.

"Family of René d'Herblay?"

Athos cringed a bit on the inside at the use of Aramis' true name. His brother hated it. "Yes."

"What's going on? Is he okay?" D'Artagnan rose to his feet as the doctor approached.

"I don't know if I'd say he's going to be okay," the doctor said, and Athos felt his heart drop into his feet. "But he's awake, which is a great first step."

D'Artagnan sagged with relief and Athos suppressed the urge to strangle the young physician.

"Can we see him?" There was a hopeful note in the young Gascon's voice.

"I'll allow it for just a few minutes. Emilie knows to expect you," the doctor said, referring to Aramis' other nurse.

The two men thanked him and quietly re-entered the ICU room, which was dimly lit by the eerie glow of monitors. Emilie was leaning over the bed, fiddling with one of the lines. She smiled at them as they entered.

"Just a few minutes, okay? I think it will do him a lot of good," she whispered to them. She turned her attention back to her patient. "Aramis? Your family is here to see you." She then quietly stepped away from the bedside to make more room for the two men.

"Hey, Aramis. It's good to see you awake," D'Artagnan whispered excitedly. He leaned over the bed and placed a careful hand on Aramis' shoulder, a wide, joyful grin splitting his face.

"Welcome back, brother." Aramis was a wan, frail shadow of his usual self. Despite that, seeing his eyes open and at least somewhat alert lifted an enormous weight off of Athos' shoulders. He clasped Aramis' hand in his own and gave it a gentle squeeze. Athos was gratified to feel the pressure returned, however lightly. He beamed at his wounded friend.

Aramis' loopy, sleepy gaze moved from one man to the other and his lips curled up into the tiniest of smiles. There was no confusion in his face; it was apparent that Aramis knew them, recognized them even through the haze of strong drugs. His brow furrowed in a concerned question as he looked at Athos, however.

"Porthos is fine, just taking a nap. Against his will, I might add. He'll be back in the morning, I promise."

Aramis' eyelids were already drooping as exhaustion pulled him back under. He gave a small nod of acknowledgement as he glanced at each of his brothers again. Athos could see the gratitude shining from his eyes as they slowly closed in healing sleep.

"Rest, Aramis. We'll be here for you when you wake again," Athos murmured. "We'll all be right here."

* * *

"Stop playing with your food." Porthos watched with a frown as Aramis made a face at the hospital's daily offering.

"I don't know how anyone is supposed to get better eating this," Aramis said, lifting a spoonful of some mysterious white goop and letting it fall back onto the tray with a sad _plop._ "How can I be expected to eat this if I can't even tell what it is?" he continued plaintively.

Athos raised an eyebrow. It had been about a week since Aramis had been moved from the ICU to a general ward, and Athos could tell that his brother was slowly starting to feel better by the increasing volume of complaints. 'I'm bored', 'I'm itchy' and 'when can I get out of here' were the ones that saw the heaviest rotation. The last one was his particular favorite. "Those are clearly mashed potatoes," the older man said patiently, pointing at the white mush. "And next to that are some sautéed courgettes and a roasted chicken breast."

Aramis glared at his friend. "Oh, is that what it is? Since you seem so interested in my meal, how about you eat it, and I'll eat whatever D'Artagnan brings back."

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"Come on, Athos."

"No."

"You would deny a wounded man his dearest wish?"

"Yes."

"My God, you're heartless." Aramis grimaced and shoveled a forkful of vegetables into his mouth. He'd already suffered through several lectures from his nurse about the unconsumed state of his meals. It had taken the threat of a feeding tube to get Aramis to obey and eat.

Athos shrugged. "If you say so." Porthos smirked at him from the other side of the bed. Athos could tell that the big man was enjoying a rare moment in which he wasn't the target of Aramis' petulance. In all honesty, Athos didn't mind at all. Not when the alternative was so much worse. He watched Aramis closely as his brother choked down a few more bites and then pushed the tray away. He still looked peaked, and the hollows in his cheeks made it obvious that he'd lost weight he could ill afford to lose. Semi-permanent lines of pain creased the corners of his eyes and his brow. Those only smoothed out when he was sleeping.

Despite the severity of his wounds, the doctors were cautiously optimistic that Aramis would make a full recovery, barring any further complications. They'd already struggled through one setback when an infection had set in immediately after Aramis had been moved into the general ward. But Aramis was young and strong, and those things worked in his favor as he clawed himself back to health, buoyed by the love and support of his brothers as well as some heavy-duty antibiotics.

"Hey guys, I have food for everyone!" D'Artagnan strode into the room, swinging two large paper bags. "Ah, except for you, Aramis. Sorry."

Aramis groaned as he pressed his head back against his pillows, covering his eyes with one arm. A rich, spicy smell filled the small room as D'Artagnan handed out bowls of curry and rice. "Are you trying to torture me?" he asked weakly.

"Of course not. Why would we do such a terrible thing?" Porthos asked around a hearty mouthful. He paused in his chewing and gave Aramis a wide grin. "Mmm. This tastes really, _really_ good. I just love chicken curry."

"Go away. I hate all of you."

"What did I do?" D'Artagnan asked. He looked down at his bowl. "I agree, this is pretty tasty."

Athos smiled as Aramis groaned again.

"Is this a bad time?" A feminine voice called to them from the doorway, and all four men turned to see who it was.

"Sylvie!" Aramis perked up and a pleased smile graced his face. It became even wider when he saw who was with her.

"Hello, Monsieur Aramis," Mariam said shyly. She was clutching her younger brother's hand. "We wanted to ask after your health."

"Well, I certainly feel much better now," Aramis said cheerfully. "Please, come in."

Sylvie ushered in the two children, gently pushing them ahead of her. Athos had run into her when he'd gone to visit Didier in the hospital several days ago, knowing it would have been what Aramis wanted. Sylvie had asked whether she could bring Mariam and Rami to visit, and looking at them now, Athos was glad that he'd told her to wait. Considering the frozen expression on her face, Athos could tell that Sylvie was a bit shocked by Aramis' appearance. It was probably a good thing that they hadn't seen him right after being released from the ICU.

Aramis patted the sliver of empty mattress space next to him, encouraging Rami to join him on the bed. The little boy obliged and clambered up with some help from his sister. He squeezed his skinny body next to Aramis' and leaned against the pillows, mimicking the half-Spaniard's position. Rami have Aramis a contented grin. "Thank you for finding Mariam," he said slowly in French. He sounded out each word with care, as if he had practiced them. "I am happy she is back."

"You're very welcome," Aramis said, ruffling Rami's hair. "Make sure you watch out for your sister, okay?" The little boy nodded solemnly.

"I don't know how to thank you," Mariam said, standing uncomfortably by the bed, her hands clutched tightly in front of her. "I'm so sorry you were hurt. I didn't...I didn't mean for it..." She trailed off and looked down, guilt written all over her face.

"Mariam, this not your fault," Aramis said firmly, pushing himself up so that he was sitting upright. "I want that to be perfectly clear. You didn't do anything wrong. If anything, I'm sorry it took us so long to find you." Mariam looked up and met Aramis' eyes. "And besides, there's nothing to worry about. I'll be just fine." Porthos sighed loudly.

The girl nodded. Athos knew that it would take a while for her to fully believe Aramis' words. Guilt was an insiduous, persistent thing. Sylvie put a comforting arm around the girl's shoulders. "I thought we were alone, that no one would come for us," Mariam said softly.

Aramis reached out with a hand - the one that was not hooked up to multiple lines - and Mariam leaned forward, clasping it in her own smaller ones. "None of us would have left you there, Mariam." He gestured at all of the others. "Once we figured out what was going on, we wouldn't have even dreamed of leaving you in the hands of those monsters."

"I didn't know what to do. I was so scared," Mariam whispered. "Maybe more scared than I've ever been."

"Anyone would have been. It must have been a very frightening thing to live through." Aramis tightened his fingers around her hands. He guessed it would be a long time before Mariam felt completely safe again.

The girl nodded, biting her lip in an effort to compose herself. Aramis tamped down on the anger that welled up inside of him. This was neither the time nor place for it.

"I know your life has been difficult and there's a lot of uncertainty for you and Rami right now. My own mother was an immigrant, and so was Porthos'." Aramis saw the big man nod in the periphery of his vision. "They came to France under desperate circumstances, and they had no friends, no family here. But they found some, eventually. I hope you know that you have friends here, too. We'll help you whenever you need it." There was a general murmur of agreement in the background.

Mariam nodded again and she glanced about the room. "I do," she said quietly. "Thank you. I will always remember this."

"Good," Aramis said with a satisfied nod. A sly, playful look came over him as he winked at the teenager, looking for a way to lighten her mood a bit. "So then...as a friend, do you think you could sneak some real food in here for me?"

 _tbc_

* * *

 _Err, I'm not a physician so please take all medical descriptions with a grain of salt._

 _Also, my apologies for not saying this earlier, but thank you to everyone that has read and reviewed thus far, especially the guest reviewers to whom I can't respond. I really love hearing your thoughts!_

 _We're almost to the finish line... Thanks for reading!_


	13. Chapter 13

It felt good to walk into his flat after an absence that had stretched almost two weeks. _No_ , Aramis amended silently. _It feels great_. It was wonderful to be some place that had comfortable furniture and didn't smell like antiseptic and cleaning fluids. Being trapped in a hospital room where every decision was made for him, where he had no control over his schedule, his body, nothing - it was enough to drive him crazy, especially as he'd begun to recover. He gingerly dropped down onto his couch with a wince and let out a long groan that was a mix of relief and lingering pain.

"You alright?" Porthos followed him in with a worried look, dropping a bag of medications on an end table.

"Never been better, mon ami." Aramis gave Porthos an elated grin.

"It's not really as reassuring as you think it is when you say stuff like that," Porthos griped. "It just makes me wonder what it is that you're hiding."

Aramis laughed as Porthos sat down next to him, treating him to a friendly slap on the back. "On another day I might be offended by your blatant lack of trust, but today I'll let it slide. I'm just glad to be home."

"So am I, 'Mis." The big man sighed. "There was a moment or two when I thought you might not ever be coming home again."

The merriment vanished from Aramis' face. "I'm sorry, Porthos."

"I just don't understand...how could you ask me to do such a thing? To leave you behind like that?" Porthos looked angry, but Aramis could hear the anguish under his words. He knew that that this was going to come up at some point. He'd seen the turmoil simmering in his brother's eyes the entire time he had been in the hospital. Aramis heaved an internal sigh. He supposed he should be grateful that Porthos had waited until he was well enough to go home first before delving into it.

"I didn't have a choice, brother," Aramis said gently. "Neither of us did. I asked what I had to, and you did the only thing you could. The right thing. It's nothing more than that."

"'Nothing more than that'? You nearly died, 'Mis. You _did_ die."

Aramis sat back with a shrug. "We have dangerous jobs. I'm afraid the risk comes with the territory."

Porthos rubbed a hand over his head in frustration. "That's not good enough. Why is it that I only ever seem to have this conversation with you? Don't you understand what it does to us when things like this happen? And it's not just me talking here. Athos and D'Artagnan feel the same way."

Aramis pinched the bridge of his nose. It was true. He did have this conversation with Porthos far more often than he would prefer. Most of them were unwarranted, in his opinion. "I didn't ask to get shot, Porthos."

"No, but you sure as hell didn't go out of your way to avoid it either. Doesn't help that you took your vest off."

Aramis rolled his head around and stared at Porthos with a frown. "That vest saved Mariam's life. Are you suggesting that I should have left her exposed?"

The big man made a disgruntled sound, his shoulders sagging in defeat. "No, of course not. But...we still should have found another way."

"There was no time, Porthos," Aramis said patiently.

"We could have found time." Porthos stubbornly set his jaw.

"No, we couldn't have, and you know it. I'm sorry, Porthos, I really am, but it absolutely was the only way." Aramis scooted forward and turned to face Porthos, wincing a bit at the strain it put on his wounded back and damaged ribs. He fully understood the crux of the matter. "Besides, you didn't leave me behind," he gently reassured his friend. "You came back for me. Athos told me."

"Well, of course I came back," Porthos said gruffly, furiously blinking back the moisture gathering in his eyes. "What kind of friend do you think I am?"

"The best kind," Aramis said, his mouth lifting into a teasing grin. "The kind I can always depend on, the kind that's there for me whenever I need, the kind that will always - "

"Alright, alright." Porthos cut him off his a roll of his eyes. "That's enough from you."

"Are you sure? I wrote down an entire list, if you'd like to hear it. I've been saving it for just the right moment."

Porthos gave Aramis a light, playful shove. "Cheeky."

The half-Spaniard grinned back. "Always. But I mean it when I say I know you wouldn't abandon me. You never have."

Porthos nodded. "And I never will. Don't ask me to do something like that ever again."

Aramis just pat his brother on the knee in response. "Any news on Grimaud?"

"No." A look of rage flashed over Porthos' face. "Bastard's gone underground. We're certain he's still in the city, though. We'll be ready for him if he ever dares to show his face again."

"He will. I can't imagine someone like him staying down for long." Aramis slowly and awkwardly pushed himself to his feet, breathing heavily through the sparks of pain that danced around his broken bones. Aramis felt Porthos place a supportive hand on his back and he smiled in thanks. "Do you want anything to eat? I think I might have some, um..." Aramis tilted his head up and frowned as he tried to think of what food he might have that would not have spoiled in his absence. "Yogurt? Maybe some mustard?"

The big man made a disgusted face. "I think I'll pass. We stocked up your fridge, by the way. So you won't have to survive on just yogurt and mustard."

Aramis pressed a hand over his heart with sincere gratitude. "Thank you, mon ami. I am truly blessed."

"Eh," Porthos waved Aramis' thanks away as he stood up. "Couldn't have you come back from the dead only to have you starve to death in your own flat."

"That would have been tragic," Aramis agreed. "And very embarrassing."

"Get some rest," Porthos said. "I'll be back in a bit. Try not to get yourself in trouble until then, yeah?"

"No guarantees," Aramis said with a wink. He raised his hands in mock surrender when Porthos gave him a fierce glare. "Too soon?"

"It will always be too soon."

"Fine." Aramis rolled his eyes. "I might take a nap, if you approve."

Porthos raised his eyebrows imperiously. "I do."

After Porthos left, Aramis let out a long, slow breath. He loved his brothers dearly and loved being around people, but after being immersed in constant noise and chaos and general commotion for so long, the silence in his empty flat was a balm for his soul. Aramis settled himself into a reclining chair and leaned back, shifting around until he found the most comfortable position. He still became tired very easily, and Aramis didn't bother resisting as his eyelids slowly slid down.

* * *

"Grimaud's been spotted," Athos said as soon as he hung up his phone.

"What? Where?" Aramis was half out of his seat before the words had completely left his team leader's mouth.

"Oh no. You plant your butt back in that seat, 'Mis. You're sitting this one out." Porthos gave him a stern look as he holstered his firearm.

"But - "

"No." Athos cut him off. "Desk duty was a strict stipulation for your early return. It's the only reason Tréville allowed you to come back."

"D'Artagnan?" Aramis faced the Gascon with a plea in his voice.

An uncertain look came over their youngest member's face. On one hand, Aramis knew that D'Artagnan was going to be reluctant to go against Athos and Porthos. On the other, D'Artagnan would understand the allure of retribution. Before he could say anything, however, Porthos interrupted with a loud snort.

"Don't even think about it," he warned the young man.

"Sorry, Aramis." D'Artagnan gave him a contrite shrug.

Aramis stared at his brothers in disbelief. "After everything I've been through, you're really going to deny me a chance for some closure?" He wasn't above trying to guilt-trip his friends.

"Yes." Athos was unapologetic in his denial.

Aramis grabbed his gear and followed the rest of his team as they filed out of the bullpen. "I'll stay in the car," he bargained.

"Okay, even I don't believe that," D'Artagnan said.

Aramis ran in front of the other men and planted his feet, making a stand. He supposed it was possible that his friends didn't realize how important this was to him. He doubted it. They were just being irrationally stubborn. "I am going with you. This is not a request," he said, his voice deadly serious. An apoplectic look settled on Porthos' face and Aramis lifted his hand, staving off any debate. "If you don't allow me to come, I will drive myself. You already know that I'm excellent at tailing people, so don't waste anymore time arguing with me." He turned on his heel and walked away, fully expecting his friends to follow.

In all fairness, Aramis understood his brothers' reluctance to allow his participation. He'd only been out of the hospital for a week, and was far from fully healed. He simply couldn't sit this out, though. He owed this to Mariam and Rami, to Didier, to all the children that they had not managed to recover. He needed to know for sure that it was over, needed to be able to offer a sense of security to the those that came to Paris looking for refuge.

The car ride was predictably silent and uncomfortable. Porthos sat beside him in the backseat with a storm cloud darkening his expression. Aramis opened his mouth to say something and then decided against it. There was no point in riling his brother even more before walking into potential danger.

A tip had come in from the edge of the city, not too far from where the children had been held. He'd been spotted on the sidewalk, heading north. Several squad cars were already on site as Athos pulled up to the curb. Porthos turned to Aramis.

"Do not even think about moving," he growled before getting out and slamming the door shut.

"Sure," Aramis said out loud to an empty vehicle.

He leaned forward in his seat, trying to ease the ache in his lower back and watching with increasing apprehension as his brothers separated and spread out. They helped to set a perimeter around the area that Grimaud had last been spotted, attempting the hem the man in before he could escape underground again. Aramis hated being left behind, despised being out the loop and unable to help should the need arose. He pressed up against the glass of the window, trying to catch a glimpse of...anything.

Despite suffering from an odd mix of boredom and unease, Aramis had honestly been intending on obeying Porthos' command when something made him look up. A male figure skulked on the roof of one of the buildings down the street, and Aramis' heart rate began to pick up as he squinted into the distance. Even though he couldn't make out the man's face, couldn't pick up any details beyond the dark hair and dark clothing, there was no mistaking his identity. It was Grimaud.

Aramis pushed the car door open and got out, keeping his eyes trained on the man. He shoved his anger down and allowed cold focus to take over. Even though it was too far to actually see, Aramis knew the minute Grimaud spotted him. Taking off in a sprint, Aramis raced towards the building that his enemy stood on. He slammed into the entrance door shoulder first and dashed up the stairs, firmly ignoring his shaking muscles and heaving breath. _Don't you dare fail me,_ he warned his body.

It turned out to be all for naught. When he arrived on the rooftop, Aramis found it empty. He surveyed the area anyway, sweeping his gun from side to side, but he already knew it was a futile effort. There were very few places where a full-grown man could hide. Leaning over the edge of the building, Aramis scanned the sidewalk, looking for any sign of Grimaud, but found none. The man had somehow vanished.

Aramis slapped his palms hard against the low stone wall that circled the roof, letting loose a low cry of frustration. _I should have been faster. Should have seen him sooner._ Anger bubbled up inside of him, boiling up from the low simmer that had been going since Mariam had gone missing. Aramis planted his back against the wall and slid down, resting his elbows against his knees and rubbing agitatedly at the back of his head.

He didn't know how long he sat there, but eventually Aramis stiffly stood and winced at the pull on his back. He slowly made his way down the stairs and towards the company SUV to where Athos was waiting. He spotted Aramis and pressed the comm in his ear, saying something Aramis could not hear. His expression was a rare, open mess of worry and deep displeasure.

"Where the hell have you been?" the older man asked as Aramis approached slowly, his blue eyes wide and flashing. Athos grasped Aramis by the shoulders and pulled him in for a brief, hard embrace before pushing him away and giving him a small shake. "Are you alright?"

"I thought I saw him," Aramis muttered. "Grimaud. He was up on a rooftop."

Porthos and D'Artagnan turned a corner and jogged up to them. Neither of his friends looked particularly thrilled.

"Are you out of your mind?" Porthos demanded when they rejoined the two waiting men. "I told you not to get out of the car!" He also subjected Aramis to a rough, somewhat angry hug.

"Actually, what you said was - "

"Aramis, don't." Athos shook his head. "If you thought you saw something, you should have called us. There was absolutely no reason for you to endanger yourself." Aramis looked away from the disappointment in Athos' face.

"I can take care of myself," Aramis huffed with irritation. _I was so close._ "I've been in far worse situations and in far worse condition."

"I don't think that's the point," D'Artagnan interjected.

"Damn right it's not," Porthos agreed. "Get in the car. I'm taking you home."

"Not until I find out what happened," Aramis argued stubbornly.

"Nothing happened," Athos said. "It was a false alarm."

"It wasn't." Aramis shook his head. "I saw him, Athos. He was here."

"Be that as it may, he's gone now. He slipped from our net."

Aramis cursed quietly. He suddenly felt drained and he crouched down, not trusting his shaking legs to hold him up. A hand landed on his shoulder and gave it a comforting squeeze. Aramis looked up and found D'Artagnan standing over him.

"We'll get him." The young Gascon gave him a small, confident smile. "Maybe not today, but we will."

Aramis nodded. D'Artagnan and Porthos moved to help him up and Aramis accepted it even though he didn't quite need it.

They would get him. Aramis silently swore not to stop until he brought Grimaud down.

 _tbc_

* * *

 _One more to go... Thanks for reading!_


	14. Chapter 14

It was dark and depressing in the small, windowless room. There was an odd moldy smell that hung in the air, and there were unidentifiable stains on the floor and on the walls. Aramis sat in a hard plastic chair, his hands resting loosely on the dirty plastic table before him. He wanted to scoot closer to the table but was unable to do so because his seat was bolted into the concrete floor. The table itself was split into two by a low wall that he was forbidden to cross. So as much as he wanted to reach out and touch the person sitting across from him, he couldn't.

"How are you, Pauline?"

It was obvious to Aramis that prison did not agree with his old friend. She was even paler than she had been before, and her once vibrant blonde hair lay limply against her head. Lines that had not been there a month ago creased her brow and the sides of her mouth. She looked diminished, smaller than she had. She refused to meet his eyes, and sat with her gaze fixed firmly on the table top. Despite everything, it broke Aramis' heart to see her in such a state.

Pauline shrugged in response to Aramis' question. "I'm doing as well as can be expected. How...how are you?"

"Much better," he said with a smile. She didn't know about the wounds that had nearly killed him, and he intended on keeping it that way. He didn't see any reason to burden her any further.

They sat in awkward silence before a while before Aramis broke it with a sigh. "Pauline, what happened? I've been thinking about this for a while now and I still don't understand."

Pauline turned her head in shame. "There's nothing to understand. I did terrible things."

"But why?"

"Why does anyone do anything? I did it to protect myself. Because I had no other choice."

Aramis shook his head. "You always have a choice," he said gently. "It might not be the one you want to make, but it's always there."

"He would have destroyed my life, Aramis. Do you understand? He would have taken away my life with St. Pierre. I couldn't let that happen. Not when I was so close to everything I always wanted." A forlorn note rang through Pauline's voice.

"How did you end up on Grimaud's radar to begin with?" Aramis had learned from Pauline's confession that he'd had her identify potential targets that fit his clients' specific desires. She then isolated them so they'd be easier to snatch. It was a disgusting set up that preyed on the trust that the vulnerable children were trying to build with strange adults in a strange land.

"I met him when I first arrived in Paris. I don't remember how, exactly. But we...we dated for a few months before I realized that he was completely crazy. I still don't know how he found about my past."

Starting life over in a new place with no friends was hard. Aramis knew exactly how hard it was. He was lucky in that his initial mistakes hadn't haunted him and ruined any future opportunities. It seemed unfair that Pauline had not been as lucky.

"I wish...I wish I had been brave enough to just tell St. Pierre," Pauline said quietly. "But I wasn't. And it was too late by the time we met."

Aramis sat back in frustration. "I'm sorry, Pauline. I wish I could have done more to help you."

"Please don't apologize to me. You did nothing wrong. I'm the one that's sorry, Aramis. I can't even tell you how much I regret everything that happened." Pauline's eyes filled with tears as she finally looked at him. "I'm sorry. I don't know if you can ever forgive me."

The half-Spaniard's gaze softened. "Of course I forgive you, Pauline." He unconsciously reached out to take her hand when a black baton slammed onto the table.

"No touching," the guard said menacingly.

Aramis sat back in the chair again, arms held up in a peaceful gesture. "I forgot. My apologies." It would do no good to antagonize the guards in this awful place.

He turned his attention back to Pauline. "You did the right thing, in the end. Your information helped to keep those children from being sold off. You should be proud of that, if nothing else."

The woman refused to accept such easy praise. "It was my actions that put them in that situation in the first place. It's over for me, Aramis. The life I wanted is out of my grasp now. St. Pierre hasn't visited me once, hasn't spoken to me since your friends came to get me."

"I am sorry for that." Aramis shook his head with regret.

Pauline shrugged listlessly. "I suppose I'm right where I belong. It was too much to think that someone like me could live such a fairy tale life."

They two old friends sat in silence, and Aramis was aware of how rapidly time was slipping away. He only had fifteen minutes with Pauline, and there were so many questions he wanted to ask. She was a window into his past, and as selfish as it was, he couldn't pass on the opportunity. Aramis settled on the one that had bothered him for years.

"Pauline, do you know how my mother died?"

"Oh, Aramis. Of course you don't know." She clasped at her own hands, sadness painting her face. "We think Catalina might have had AIDS."

"What?" Aramis was certain his mouth was hanging open but there wasn't much he could do about it.

"We're not entirely sure, but her illness fit. She didn't know who she caught it from, but my mother and I wondered whether your father might have infected her, when he started to come around again. She died just a few years after you left."

"I see." Aramis sat very still for a moment, absolutely stunned by the news. It wasn't what he had expected - to be fair, he wasn't entirely sure _what_ he had expected - but he vaguely supposed that it made sense. "But there are drugs. Aren't there? She didn't have to die," he muttered confusedly.

"Your mother refused to see a doctor for it. She was afraid of what they would do, what people would think." Pauline laughed bitterly. "As if opinions of prostitutes could get worse. I think she thought it was some sort of punishment from God so she bore it quietly until she faded away. We cared for her the best we could, Aramis. She died with friends by her side."

 _But not with her son_ , Aramis thought numbly. "That's...that's..." Aramis honestly didn't know what to say. His brain was not functioning properly and all he could draw was a complete blank.

Pauline's eyes shone with sympathy. "Your mother's death was one of the reasons I was so desperate to leave Perpignan, to leave that life behind." _Because I didn't want to end up like her._ The unspoken words hung between them, weighty and unpleasant.

Sudden, intense grief overcame Aramis and he abruptly stood up, walking away from the table, away from Pauline. He ignored the guard that reached for his baton and simply stood by the wall, leaning his forehead against the cool cement as he breathed slowly and deeply. His chest ached and the back of his eyes burned. _I'm sorry, mamá. I'm sorry I wasn't there for you. It took me too long to understand why you gave me away. I should have been there._

Aramis didn't know how long he stood there but the guard came and placed a hand on his arm. "Time's up," he said gruffly. "We need to leave."

Aramis took one last deep breath and straightened up. "Already? Can I say goodbye before we go?"

The guard grudgingly gestured towards the table. "Make it quick."

Aramis left Pauline with genuine thanks and promises to visit again soon. As he walked out of the detention center, he found his three brothers waiting for him. Athos and Porthos leaned against the side of their vehicle while D'Artagnan sat on the hood, scrolling idly through his phone as usual.

"So? How'd it go?" Porthos asked as he approached.

"As well as can be hoped," Aramis replied with a fond grin.

"Did you get the answers you were looking for?" Athos asked. Both of them had encouraged Aramis to visit Pauline.

Aramis considered Athos' question as he wedged himself in the nonexistent space between Athos and Porthos, much to Porthos' complete annoyance. D'Artagnan hopped off the hood and stood next to Athos.

"I think I did," Aramis finally concluded. "They weren't what I was expecting, but at least I know now."

Athos squeezed the back of Aramis' neck in solidarity and then went around to the driver's side as the rest of the men piled into the car. Aramis regarded his brothers with satisfaction. He may have lost one family to time, illness and poor decisions. But he'd gained another, and he planned on holding onto it for as long as he was could.

* * *

 _"Do you have anyone that is willing to take responsibility for you?"_

 _The boy that sat in the chair in front of the prosecuter's desk shook his head. "No ma'am."_

 _The boy's voice was flat, but Tréville could hear the dejection under it. Tréville sighed as he watched Mathilde shuffle the sheaf of papers in front of her, eyeing the boy skeptically._

 _"René, I can't release you on probation unless you have someone willing to supervise you. Do you understand? We will have to see if we can place you in an educational center instead._

 _The boy didn't object. He just nodded. Tréville cleared his throat and Mathilde looked up at him._

 _"Jean? What are you doing here?" Mathilde's voice was warm upon seeing him. They had worked together before._

 _"I'll take him, Mathilde. I'll be willing to serve as his supervisor."_

 _The boy in the chair turned in his seat to look at him. Tréville thought that he looked to be about fourteen or fifteen years old, about the same age as Porthos was. This child was smaller than Porthos, although to be fair most kids were smaller than his charge. The boy, René, was lanky and thin and had a pinched look to his face that suggested that food hadn't always been readily available to him. Fading bruises decorated his face. Despite his impoverished appearance, there was a warm fire deep in his gaze that Tréville appreciated. It was the same fire that drew him to Porthos._

 _Porthos had come home about a month ago, agitated and preoccupied for reasons that were a mystery to Tréville. His mentorship of the boy had only started in the past few months, and Tréville still had a difficult time figuring out the cause of some of his darker moods. Porthos was a teenager with a troubled background, so Tréville supposed that brooding and temper were to be expected. This seemed different, however._

 _When he'd pried out the reason for Porthos' unrest, the answer had surprised him._

 _"I found a boy on the street," Porthos said, his brows furrowed. "He'd been beaten badly. There was another boy that I think was dead."_

 _"Did you call an ambulance?" The alarm in Tréville's voice must have been clear because Porthos gave him a dirty look._

 _"Course I did," Porthos growled. "Stayed with them until the medics arrived."_

 _"Good." Tréville had paused, a bit unsure of what to say. "I suppose it must have been a bit of a shock. A street fight gone wrong, perhaps?"_

 _Porthos shook his head. "It wasn't any worse than some things I've seen before," he said dismissively. "But the kid...the one that was still alive. Someone abandoned him and just left him on the sidewalk."_

 _Tréville had to admit that he had been taken aback by the sheer outrage in Porthos' voice. It was clear that he was very disturbed by what had presumably happened._

 _"That's just wrong, yeah? You don't leave your people behind. Especially not when they're hurt," he'd fumed._

 _It was the first time that Tréville had seen the boy become so passionate, and it warmed him. Porthos may have had a rough childhood, but it was obvious his heart was in the right place. It was one of the reasons Tréville had decided to take him on._

 _Spurred by Porthos' interest and encouragement, Tréville had sought the boy out. And now here he was, staring at the face of his next charge._

 _Mathilde frowned at him. "Oh...do you know each other?"_

 _"Not yet," Tréville said. "But we will. I've filled out the paperwork and it's been approved. It should be sent to your office later today."_

 _The car ride back to his home was quiet. René didn't seem to be particularly talkative, but it didn't bother Tréville much. Some things just needed time. When they'd arrived back at his place, Porthos was sitting on the doorstep, waiting for them._

 _"Hey," Porthos said with a shy smile. He stood up to greet René with an outstretched hand. "I'm Porthos."_

 _Tréville saw the boy's eyes widen. It seemed as though he recognized Porthos. He stared at the larger boy in disbelief for a beat, then two. It stretched on so long that Porthos' smile started to waver._

 _"René?" Treville gave him a little nudge._

 _"Oh." The boy shook himself and he reached out for Porthos' hand tentatively, as if was afraid that the other boy would disappear once he made contact. "I'm Aramis. Pleased to meet you."_

 _Tréville took note of the preferred name. "Well, Aramis. Welcome home."_

 _end_

* * *

 _We have reached the end! Yes, I have ended things without having our Musketeers catch Grimaud. For me, the endpoint of this story was always going to be when Aramis found the stolen children (with a big assist from this friends) rather than bringing Grimaud down. Sometimes the bad guy does get away... My apologies to anyone who is disappointed!_

 _Thank you so much to everyone who read and especially those that always took the time to share your thoughts. I loved reading them. Until next time!_


End file.
